


In the Hands of Virtue and Terror

by RownaSeria



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Qui-Gon's the one close to death instead of Obi-Wan, Serious Injuries, if I finish this I can finish anything, revolutionary justice, take that cliche fan-ims!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RownaSeria/pseuds/RownaSeria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When discussions go horribly wrong, will Obi-Wan be able to reach Qui-Gon in time? They came to prevent a war, but are now trapped in an unpredicted upheaval and without allies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that started out as little idea of about three chapters, and turned into something that (at this point) might total fourteen! I've published this on ff.net, but there will be some minor revisions in this version :)

    “Master... Master?” Obi-Wan called through the smoke filled rubble.   
  
    The delegation had been attacked, and where once stood the grand and ancient meeting hall of the Lenoians on the planet Varsis was crumbling heap of bricks and mortar, twisted steel, shattered glass, and remnants of furniture sprinkled with roof tiles. Obi-Wan picked his way through the debris, his head swimming, breathing labored. When he reached a beam that had once supported the elaborately decorated and painted ceiling the young jedi could no longer resist the cough that had been building in his throat and hacked painfully into his sleeve. He let his head rest on the beam, angled in a way that reminded Obi-Wan paradoxically of a fallen tree in the forest, except that instead of tangled undergrowth he was surrounded by a maze of wreckage. 

    The young man waited for the world to stop spinning around him, snot threatening to run out of his nose. This was a most inconvenient moment to be suffering a severe cold, but Obi-Wan could not rest. His master was somewhere in this rubble, probably hurt, possibly even dead or dying, and Obi-Wan needed to find him.   
  
    Everything had gone wrong. In the distance the padawan could hear the riots, distant shouts, the roar of the mob. Chaos and looting lay beyond and help was not coming, because the government had fallen. That meant Obi-Wan, as sick and faint as he was, was the only hope now for Qui-Gon, and the young man would never knowingly let his master down.   
  
    With a deep breath Obi-Wan lifted his head from the beam, the world swimming for a second before he felt stable enough to continue. Taking in his surroundings, Obi-Wan decided to clamber over the beam, the rubble being particularly tangled on either side, as he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back up if he crawled underneath. Dropping heavily down on the other side, with none of the usual Jedi grace and another, smaller cough, Obi-Wan resumed calling, hoping, straining to hear any whisper of a reply. 

    This particular part of the hall was the location where the delegation had originally been scheduled to meet, but it was long, and the meeting table was now buried beneath the rubble, the space nearly unrecognizable with the half tumbled in, scorched walls, the floor a sea of destruction.   
  
    Once more Obi-Wan had to pause and cough uncontrollably, the dust swirling in the air, other figures moving, groaning somewhere near and yet indescribably distant. If only he hadn't caught such a bad cold, Obi-Wan could have been there with Qui-Gon,  And what then? another part of his mind chided,  You would have been trapped along with him, and would good would you be to him buried under brick?  At least, they would have been together...   
  
    Obi-Wan rubbed his eyes, attempting to stop the useless argument with himself. “Be mindful of the present,” Qui-Gon often told him. If there was any time to follow that advice, this moment was it. Attempting to breath deeply without setting off another bout of hacking, he reached for the Force. It came to him wavering, but within reach. Obi-Wan's head was beginning to hurt, and that combined with the dizziness, made it difficult to focus. Even so, Obi-Wan pressed forward, reaching for the spark in the Force that was uniquely Qui-Gon's. Normally it would have been easy for him to locate his master's bright presence, but now everything felt cloudy and muted, possibly from his illness, although it was also likely Qui-Gon's aura was dimmed because the man was unconscious, or worse.   
  
    Had the older man been caught in the middle of it? Had he felt some warning from the force and found a place of relative safety? Had he been crushed helping other delegates escape? Obi-Wan knew only that his master had been here when the room was ripped apart by explosions, the old building no mach against the imported, technologically advanced weapons. Obi-Wan had been in their chambers, located in one of the side wings far away from the site of the disaster. He'd been startled awake from his nap by an intense feeling of warning from the Force, possibly from his master. Moments after he heard the explosion, felt the aftershocks shake the entire building to its foundations.    
  
    There was silence, and then the screaming began.   
  
    He's been nearly out the door when a thought caught up with him and Obi-Wan got dressed in more than just his sleeping clothes, making sure he had his light saber clipped to his belt. He almost wandered from the room again before remembering weapons weren't aloud in the negotiation chamber, and he went back and grabbed Qui-Gon's light saber as well.   
  
    The halls were madness, servants were screaming, guards were yelling, trying to induce order where there was none. No one seemed to have been drilled for this type of emergency, or if they had it was forgotten. Then the revolutionary's came, or the terrorists, depending on one’s point of view. Each had the distinctive blue and yellow bandana chosen to represent the revolutionary movement, and they ruthlessly cleared the halls of guards and other marked officials, leaving the servants and minor bureaucrats and aides to fend for themselves. Obi-Wan managed to slip past them, thanks to the Force or perhaps their indifference. Either way he was glad, his cold having dulled his senses.    
  
    Now, the rush of strength he'd felt at the beginning of the crisis having worn off, Obi-Wan was beginning to wear down. He stumbled over something that may have once belonged to a chair, and a leg belonging to someone completely crushed by the falling debris. It was little consolation that the blue legging meant it was not his master, as the twisted and battered form seemed to stay in Obi-Wan’s mind even after he looked away. It was becoming harder for him to focus as more physical evidence of the death toll became apparent, there was a mounting tension in his chest and his vision began to blur. His voice had long since given out, but even if he had been in good health, the clenching he felt would have made it impossible to call out. Stumbling blindly over shattered chairs, smashed data pads, a dead, reaching hand from beneath rubble that had once been a column, he finally paused, blinking until he could see clearly before him a water glass, miraculously preserved but for a single crack. Obi-Wan focused on breathing, though he could only seem to take shallow breaths, the air stinging with dust and irritating his already congested respiratory system; anything deeper and he would have burst out into a rough coughing fit, and he could feel if that happened it would be extremely painful.   
  
    Finally in a little more control of himself, Obi-Wan looked up. There, just a little ways ahead, a scrap of fabric was visible. This wouldn’t have been so remarkable, the robes of delegates, tapestries and curtains being strewn about rubble in tatters, except that this particular scrap looked like rough, dark brown homespun. The elite of Lenoia always wore the finest of weaves, and dressed their servants and buildings in matching splendor. Before he even made a conscious decision to move, Obi-Wan found himself beside the scrap. The hem of his master’s cloak had torn, trailing beneath a rubble heap. With a burst of strength he didn’t know he still possessed, Obi-Wan shifted aside the brick, stonework and beams in the way and found Qui-Gon. His body was sheltered by a pillar that crashed against the wall, creating a barrier which deflected most of the debris to either side. One of Qui-Gon’s legs was bent in a way no human leg should bend, and he appeared to be coated in a fine layer of dust. Obi-Wan quickly knelt beside his master and felt for a pulse. When he found the feeble, but oh, so blessedly present beat, the young jedi let out a breath he hadn’t known he’s been holding in. His master was merely unconscious.   
  
    That breath induced another fit of coughing, his nose running in the most undignified and inconvenient manner, and Obi-Wan dug for the handkerchief he’d tucked away in his robe what felt like a lifetime ago. Nose wiped and cough quieted, the rather sick padawan took a moment to still his swirling emotions and access the Force in order to the asses the damage. Obi-Wan was not nearly as skilled in this use of the Force as he would have liked, being more often the recipient of such attentions, but he gathered what little knowledge he had and gently probed for injuries using his hands as well as the Force. Most of the injuries did not seem to be life threatening. The Jedi Master would certainly be sporting some spectacular, but mostly superficial bruises. He had a few cracked ribs, but Obi-Wan was willing to admit he might not be able to tell if they were broken or worse. Then there was, of course, the broken leg. Obi-Wan felt confident enough to roll his master ever so slightly so that he could see his other side, and that was when he found something truly horrible.   
  
    The right side of his master head was a mess of congealed blood and matted hair. Obi-Wan felt his stomach roll as the dizziness returned with a vengeance, the sensation forcing him to close his eyes and physically swallow down the bile rising in the back of his throat. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen blood before, or even such a dramatic injury, but his weakened immune system combined with his fear for his master’s safety combined to throw him completely off balance. Even after his nausea had abated, Obi-Wan opened his eyes to find his vision blurred, and it wasn’t until he felt a tear trickle down and land on his master’s brow that he realized he was crying.   
  
    Furiously wiping his eyes with his sleeve, the padawan struggled to curb his swelling emotions before they spun out of control. He needed to put all those jedi lessons into practice, to think logically instead of letting emotion rule him, to pull back and stand firmly on his center, rather than letting himself reel off, unbalanced. Even with that awareness it was difficult with his master lying in such a state. Obi-Wan had no way of knowing if the head wound was just a bad cut that had happened to bleed profusely, or a fracture, or perhaps something more sinister, such as bleeding on the inside.   
  
    Dimly, the sound of footsteps and what sounded like a blaster being cocked filtered through Obi-Wan’s distress. “Wait!” he attempted to yell while looking up, although it came out as more of a pitiful croak.   
  
    The Lenoian behind the blaster hesitated, lowering his weapon by a fraction. Not a cold blooded killer than, though he was wearing the bandana of the rebellion. “We’re Jedi… ambassadors from Coruscant…” Obi-Wan managed to voice, clearing his throat violently. The tawny skinned, whiskered man seemed to be listening, “If you kill us, there will be repercussions… the Jedi counsel, if not the Senate, would send out… forces.”   
  
    Obi-Wan chose his words carefully, well aware they could be the difference between life and death. The blaster lowered a little further. The Lenoian called out in the lilting tongue of the planet, and very shortly another member of the rebellion walked up, and a quick discussion ensued. The newcomer was obviously of higher rank, even without the slightly more formal garments, he carried an air of command and inner confidence. Soon he turned to Obi-Wan and the young man found himself staring into the bottomless black eyes of the natives. Though he had been on the planet for over a week, the lack of whites or even irises was disturbing. Obi-Wan, however, did nothing to display his insecurity, the impassive mask of a jedi firmly in place.   
  
    The newcomer’s voice was rough and hard, much like the scarred angles of his face, but he spoke common well, “My comrade says you are Jedi, that you are from Coruscant. He says you believe there will be… repercussions if you were to die. He says that you told him this.”   
  
    “Yes,” Obi-Wan said.    
  
    Though there had been no question, the silence after the man’s bald statements seemed to demand some form of acknowledgement. When he still made no move to reply, Obi-Wan found himself continuing to speak, “As the ambassadors from Coruscant we are here merely as impartial intermediaries… the Jedi Council and the Senate would interpret any violence done to us as a hostile act…” Obi-Wan felt himself beginning to waver under the Lenoian’s relentless gaze, “Please,” he hated the way his voice cracked at that plea, but foraged ahead, “my master is severely injured and in need immediate treatment.”   
  
    After a few more moments intense staring, the scarred man called out and waved over one of his colleagues. He rapped out a few curt orders and turned back to Obi-Wan, “We will give him treatment. The Party Leaders will decide your fate.”   
  
    “Thank you,” the young man replied, but the Lenoian remained unmoved.   
  
    It seemed an eternity as they waited for whoever the commander had summoned. With nothing but the two rebels staring and his master’s shallow breaths beside him, Obi-Wan finally heard the sound of blasters in the background. It took him a while to gather his wits enough to realize what it meant, but when the answer came he felt his gut clench. The rebels were shooting the survivors, as he and Qui-Gon had nearly been shot. Many top government officials of both factions had attended the negotiations. Lenoia had only recently come out of a vicious civil war and was very near the breaking point again, which was why they had requested an intermediary. It was known on Coruscant the situation was very close to being explosive and it had been decided to send in Jedi Knights. What they didn’t know back on Coruscant was that the trouble the Lenoian government called “isolated terrorist attacks” was more along the lines of a full scale rebellion. Now Obi-Wan was caught in the middle of social upheaval with Qui-Gon unconscious and no idea what was going on outside the immediate area.   
  
    A wave of relief washed through the young man when two rebels bearing a stretcher arrived, but when Obi-Wan stood up to make room, the world began to spin. Before he realized what had happened, he felt an arm supporting him. A dim part of his mind noted that it was the Lenoian who had first found them and that the man was also giving him a pat down, removing the two lightsabers from his belt and handing them to the commander, but the dizziness remained and Obi-Wan could not get his limbs to respond. Exhaustion was catching up with him: his eyelids heavy, the persistent itch in the back of his throat begging for release. Thankfully the Lenoian continued to support him as Obi-Wan was no longer certain he could stand on his own. The grip was firm and unyielding, but without cruelty. However, when the rebel turned to lead him away, he was not so considerate and the padawan nearly tripped and fell.   
  
    “Wait!” he found himself yelling, and then coughing painfully, “Please, be careful with my master…”   
  
    As he looked back he could see the two Lenoians bearing the stretcher were already preparing to move the Jedi Master. The closer one looked back over his shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, kid, we’ll take good care of him.”   
  
    He had the same unnerving black eyes, but his smile was kind, and the tone of his voice reassuring. Obi-Wan could do little more than let himself be lead away.


	2. Death’s Second Self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I should note that I've only seen the movies and read fanfics, and all the special spacy names are pulled from my memory and other fics. SO, I just realized I used "common" to describe regular "English" last time, and this time a pulled the word "Basic" from somewhere... and I can't find it again. Therefore, does anyone have a final answer on this? It would be very handy to know!

    Obi-Wan sighed and looked out the window at the dreary courtyard, letting his head rest on its surface. It seemed he had finally reached the end of what had felt like an endless series of rooms and people, the only constant the guard, as he began to think of the man who had first discovered him and Qui-Gon in the rubble. Most of the conversations were spoken quickly in Lenoian, and though Obi-Wan had studied the rudimentary levels of the language, there was no way he could follow the conversation. The best guess he could make was that there was some dispute over where exactly to put him, and presumably Qui-Gon as he heard the word Jedi with a Lenoian plural at the end. At one point he had even nodded off, the guard shaking him awake and speaking broken basic, “Up now. Yer goin to  finaplass .”   
  
    Obi-Wan had no idea if the last word was meant to be basic or Lenoian, but that didn’t seem to matter as the guard had lifted him by the elbow and marched him down another corridor and over to an adjacent wing. The journey through they complex maze that comprised the governmental center of the city finally ended in a new addition, though Obi-Wan couldn’t tell if it was a separate building, or connected to the web-like wings of the older structures. It seemed like every time the Lenoian government felt it needed more space they built another long addition creating a winding labyrinth of halls, courtyards, and footpaths.   
  
    The room in which they placed him was a simple rectangle with a fresher built into one corner, creating a smaller area by the window. The furniture was simple; there were two beds, as well as two chairs and a tiny table by the window.  The beds themselves were on wheels. The walls were a bland, beige color, the standard basecoat in Lenoia, and the floors were of a hard, synthetic material, rather than the old wooden or tile floors in the other buildings Obi-Wan visited. Most interestingly the window was of one sheet, unlike the many-paned windows in the other suite they’d been occupied for the past month.    
  
    Ominously, the door had no handle. Was he in a hospital? a jail? both? Obi-Wan wished he’d paid more attention to the tour they’d been given when he and Qui-Gon first arrived all those months ago, then he might have some small idea what this building was originally used for.   
  
    The guard had left him alone sometime ago, and now the padawan had nothing but his thoughts for company. In his exhausted state, his mind seemed to be chasing its self in circles. Where had they taken his master? Why this building, this room? At least the second bed seemed to indicate there would be a reunion. More worrying, however, were the thoughts about what, exactly, had occurred. Was it an isolated rebellion, only in the capital city of Koshol? Or what it more wide spread? What type of rebellion was it? Did they mean to simply replace the current government, or to build a new order; did they even have a set order in mind, or was it more spontaneous? Obi-Wan could give no definite answer to any of these questions, nor receive any answers completely isolated as he was. Even the view out the window was of an inner courtyard; only a few figures wearing the rebel bandanas stood about, or walked across the compound talking heatedly. There was no one from the outside.   
  
    The young man didn’t realize he was nodding off until his head slid down the glass and nearly struck the windowsill. Letting his mind chase its own tail was helping no one, least of all himself. As he was too tired to meditate, Obi-Wan decided there was no choice but to give into the urge to sleep. He took a moment to use the fresher, clean himself up a bit, the fine dust having worked its way into his robes and skin, and took a moment to thoroughly blow his nose. He climbed on top of the bed nearest the window, boots and all, not bothering with the starchy, white coverings and wrapped himself up in his cloak. A part of his mind continued its weary speculation, and he couldn’t imagine falling asleep. However, very soon after he lay down that was exactly what happened   
  
    He woke feeling as if he couldn’t breathe, his mouth was painfully dry, and it seemed as if all of the mucus had settled into the left side of his face. His head felt stuffy and achy, and the racket going on nearby wasn’t helping. A harsh feminine voice was rapping out commands in Lenoian, and there was sounds of feet shuffling and sheets rustling; obviously there were quite a few people in the room. Obi-Wan sluggishly rolled over.    
  
    The first thing he noticed was the voice belonged to a rather tall woman of typical, slightly reddish coloring, but with brown hair of a lighter shade than average in the Koshol region. She spoke with authority and dressed in standard Lenoian medical garb. Obi-Wan assumed she must be a doctor. The others seemed to be medical staff, and what they were moving was what caught the young man’s attention second. It was Qui-Gon, and at first the padawan felt a rush of relief so intense it blotted out everything else. He could see the well remembered profile, and for a while he just stared.   
  
    Slowly, he came back to his surroundings, noticing the bandage around his master’s head, and the equipment that had been hauled along with him into the room. By now the doctor was shooing the rest of the occupants out, and he noticed his guard was waiting on the other side of the door before it closed. The Lenoian woman turned to address Obi-Wan, “You are this man’s apprentice, correct?”   
  
    Obi-Wan cleared his throat and agreed.   
  
    “I am Doctor Shehlal. First, Master Jinn, as I was told his name was, has suffered a fracture in the tibia and fibula , multiple cracked ribs and several contusions. These have all been treated in the standard methods prescribed by the Medical Association of Lenoian Physicians. We have used lomath pins to secure the bones and all medications have been approved as non-toxic for his species by the Inter-Galactic Pharmacological Association. The prognosis for these injuries is standard. However, the head injury included lacerations and a depressed skull fracture.”   
  
    The doctor spoke in perfectly accented basic, but Obi-Wan found her voice unsettling. It was almost too perfect; as if she were parroting back the responses from a learning tape with the same, contrived intonation. “Now,” she continued, giving the padawan piercing look, “I would like to ask you a few questions concerning the patient, in order to better assess his condition and complete our differential diagnosis. Is that acceptable?”   
  
    “I will, as best I can,” Obi-Wan croaked back.   
  
    Doctor Shehlal began her barrage as if his consent had never been in doubt. She began by asking many basic questions, about Qui-Gon Jin’s medical history: if he had any known allergies, known medical conditions, and the like, all of which Obi-Wan answered. Then she came to a rather unexpected question, giving him an almost aggressive look, “Is it true Jedi can perform what is called a ‘healing trance?’” Obi-Wan assented, “and is Master Jinn capable of performing such a trance?” the padawan nodded. “What is the probability he has entered such a trance?”   
  
    “Not… very great,” Obi-Wan puzzled over the question, “It’s a very focused state, he was probably knocked unconscious before he could enter that state, and with being moved and operated on…”   
  
    Dr. Shehlal’s eyes narrowed, “How certain are you?”   
  
    The young man felt the full weight of her character bear down upon him, and was forced to reply, “Only… a little. If he were, I can’t sense it, and we would only know when he wakes up.”   
  
    Though she hardly moved, when the doctor looked to the side Obi-Wan felt as if she had backed off an entire step, “I am sorry to say, based on your statements, Master Jinn is mostly likely in a comatose state.” She did not sound sorry, “We have treated the patient’s head wound with some of the modern bacta methods utilized by the republic, but such advanced medical technology is in short supply, and it was deemed your species is capable of healing most of the wounds sustained by Master Jinn. Now, it is imperative to monitor the patient’s state, to see if he begins to wake or deteriorates. My colleague will be along shortly to monitor the patient. Dr. Lemleshor is well versed in traumatic injury and the possible complications that can arise from the treatment given. Now, forgive me, but there are many in great need at this time. If you have any need, or there are any drastic changed in Master Jinn’s state, you can page a nurse using this button,” and as she spoke the pointed out the blue button.   
  
    Obi-Wan nodded numbly, it seemed like to much to take in at once. “One more thing,” the strident voice said, “Have you had your cold assessed?”   
  
    After blinking in confusion a few moments, the padawan managed to reply. It was odd to have the topic suddenly switched. “Yes, the physician said it was merely the Ollof flu, and not a very bad strain at that.”   
  
    The doctor gave him a final piercing look, nodded, and said “Good. I will see you tomorrow.”   
  
    And with that, she spoke into a com-unit attached to her coat, the door swung open, and without further ado she left.   
  
    Obi-Wan dug the handkerchief out of his robe and blew his nose, the vague wish for disposable tissues in the back of his mind. But first concern was Qui-Gon. He rolled off the bed and stood by his master’s prone form. The Master Jedi looked rather worse for wear with his head bandaged and hair tangled and poking out of the dressings. They had removed his robe, understandably, and tightly bandaged his chest. The broken leg was in a cast and elevated. On the side closest to the door the machinery monitoring his vitals was blinking away. Obi-Wan didn’t recognize the symbols, but the could make an educated guess which reading, at least, was the heart beat.   
  
    It was difficult to see Qui-Gon in such a state, so weak and vulnerable. To Obi-Wan it seemed as if his master was a pillar of strength. Oh, he knew Qui-Gon was only human and all too prone to injury, but in the past he had always carried them through any danger despite any set back with a calm, imperturbable composure. This time it seemed as if the world had turned on its head. Without thinking, Obi-Wan reached out and took the older man’s hand in his own. It was as he remembered, large and calloused from frequent saber use, but the grip was gone, the muscles slack. Even when Obi-Wan reached out with the Force, his master’s presence was diminished—not as if he was consciously shielding, but as if he was a great distance away, unreachable. Obi-Wan had the mental image of Qui-Gon at the bottom of a very deep, very dark well, like one of the mine shafts he’d seen on Kolloss as a child. They’d left a particular impression because there was no echo. That was how Obi-Wan felt now: no matter how much he called his master, his voice was merely swallowed by the darkness.   
  
    Obi-Wan hadn’t even realized the room its self had gone dark until a light was flicked on and his eyes were blinking, adjusting to the sudden change in illumination.    
  
    The sun had set.   
  
    “Hello there. Oh! Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to startle you.”   
  
    The voice belonged to a vaguely familiar man who had just entered and was pushing a cart with a tray of food on it. He continued to speak while he wheeled it around in front of Obi-Wan’s bed, “The nurse was about to drop off your meal, and I just thought I’d wheel it in myself since I was coming to visit anyway. I’m Dr. Ansel Lemleshor, but you can just call me Dr. Lemmy,” the doctor had reached out and gripped Obi-Wan by the wrist, which the young man did likewise in the Lenoian version of a handshake, “and you are?”   
  
  
    “Obi-Wan Kenobi, Doctor,” the padawan managed to reply after clearing his throat.   
  
    “It is a pleasure to meet you. You are Master Jinn’s apprentice; I believe the jedi word is padawan?”   
  
    “Yes,” it took a moment, but Ob-Wan finally recognized him as the stretcher bearer who had spoken to him before.   
  
    “You should get a start on your dinner while I look over your comrade.”   
  
    Obi-Wan nodded and turned his attention to the tray. The food was similar to the other mushy, brownish dishes common in Lenoia, but the young man doubted it was of the same quality they’d been served before. Even so, Obi-Wan discovered he was ravenous and dug in with gusto. All the while Dr. Lemleshor amicably rambled on, checking Qui-Gon’s injuries and state of consciousness with efficiency.   
  
    “You know,” the doctor said with a smile, “the nurses are in terror of you Jedi, and I might say some of the guards as well. Members of your order are considered rather exotic and are used frequently in popular media. Sometimes as a kind off-worlder, more usually as a powerful antagonist of sorts, but most often as a—how do you say…  day-us ex machee-na . As in, a jedi will arrive near the end and settle the plot with his invisible powers. I have done my research, and know what you believe. Unfortunately most inhabitants have very little idea of what the Jedi are actually about.”   
  
    Obi-Wan noticed that Dr. Lemleshor had a very good command of basic, but would sometimes pronounce difficult words oddly. After he’d taken the edge of his hunger, the young man carefully watched the Lenoian as he spoke. He was tall and rather well built. Obi-Wan couldn’t quite decide if the completely black eyes were more or less unsettling in a cheerful face, rather than the sober countenances he’d seen more often donned by the Lenoians. The padawan coughed a little, but if the doctor noticed or knew he was being observed, he gave to indication and continued his idle talk.   
  
    “I read a great deal during the wars, and the Jedi Order was one of the more interesting subjects. I was rather shocked when the fighting was over how little screenwriters and authors bothered to learn about their subjects. Of course, they only really wrote to entertain the masses. The elite, the  varyars , there’s not a good term to describe them in basic, thought they could placate the people with trashy holovids. But, the need was too deep, the hunger too strong.”   
  
    Just when it seemed Dr. Lemleshor was about to reveal something interesting, he finished his exam and turned his attention to Obi-Wan, a more serious expression on his face, “It seems Master Jinn is still in a deep comatose state. His other injuries are on their way towards healing. But all of that could easily change at this early stage. Please alert us if you observe any changes, such as fever or signs of awakening. Now,” he smiled as he changed the subject, “you seem to have quite the cold, kid. Have you had it checked?”   
  
    Obi-Wan sniffled and wished his symptoms didn’t have such good dramatic timing, “Yes, the court physician said it was  Ollof flu.”   
  
    It seemed like no matter where, when visiting the doctor’s he was forced to answer the same questions over and over again.    
  
    Lemleshor just shook his head sadly, “Not much can be done about that but let to it run its course,” the doctor looked concerned for a moment and then shook his head, the smile back on his face, “I’ll have nurse Misshi bring in some  bulsk . It’s a warm drink that will help with the congestion. And don’t worry, Misshi isn’t afraid of anything, I think she’s been a nurse for longer than most of us have been alive and has seen everything,” Lemleshor gave Obi-Wan one last look up and down and said, “I’ll have her bring you some clean clothes too. One of the leaders, or perhaps even the whole core of the Party will wish to see you tomorrow, so get some rest. I’ll be on call all night if anything happens.”   
  
    And with that Lemleshor shook the padawan’s hand one last time, wheeling the now empty tray away with him as he left.   
  
    Obi-Wan lay back on the bed, pulled off his boots, curled up in his robe and let his head roll towards the window. The courtyard was dark, though some of the windows in the wings across the gap were lit up. Above the building Obi-Wan could see the dark purplish tint of the sky and a few stars strong enough to fight against the artificial lighting and shine through. Even with his nap Obi-Wan felt completely drained. As un-jedi like as it was, he desperately wished for no more visits, no more doctors or nurses, and for him and his master to be back safe on Coruscant with no worries but the little things, like training or lessons with the younglings. With a deep feeling of homesickness the padawan drifted off to sleep, without even turning off the light.    
  
    Not even the arrival of Misshi a few hours later with a steaming mug and an armful of clothes woke him. She smiled a crinkled smile, pulled the covers out from under him with wrinkled, but strong hands and tucked the boy in. For in the eyes of Misshi, near everyone was a child or grandchild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are super duper appreciated!


	3. The Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter was rather difficult for me to write, but I succeeded! I found out I have a hard time not describing every little thing that happens, so I had to work out which parts were actually important to the story. One of the charcters was a type I'd never written before, so that was an interesting challenge.

    It was still dark when Obi-Wan woke with the sudden urge to use the fresher. After taking care of his immediate needs, he stole a glance in the mirror. He looked awful and it felt as if something had crawled in his mouth and died. It was probably a horrible combination of cold-mucus and left over food from dinner. Before he could do anything about it, Obi-Wan was struck by a bout of coughing so intense he could do nothing for a moment but hack and cling to the rim of the sink. It was a dry, painful cough, and after it finally stilled—passed was not at all the right word as Obi-Wan felt it could start again any moment—he let his head rest on the cool, ceramic basin.   
  
    Just when he was beginning to feel a little more under control, Obi-Wan heard the door to the room open and muffled footsteps entering. Cracking open the fresher door he saw a wizened, old, Lenoian woman carrying a lantern checking Qui-Gon stats and shifting him in the bed with practiced ease. Obi- Wan stepped completely out of the fresher.   
  
    On noticing him the woman smiled, the whips of gray hair floating about her head like a cobweb. The effect was intensified by the lantern light. In Koshol electricity was a valuable resource and even the richest of households often switched to rechargeable lanterns after dark. “ Good morning, child. I am Tura Misshi, ” she said quietly in Lenoian, setting the lantern down on a side table.   
  
    At least Obi-Wan could understand simple pleasantries and reply in kind, “ Morning. I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi .”   
  
    She immediately began chattering away, Obi-Wan completely loosing the thread of the conversation, “Er…” he interrupted, beginning in basic and witching Lenoian, “I don’t…  I don’t speak much Lenoian. ”   
  
    The old woman’s eyes lit up with understanding, and she continued to speak but began adding gestures to her words. Her grip was surprisingly strong when she took him by the wrist and drew him over to a pile of clothes he assumed were the ones Dr. Lemleshor mentioned. She then drew him over and showed him how to  operate the somewhat bizarre shower system common in Lenoia and pointed to the towels and towel racks. Obi-Wan knew how to operate them in general, though the handle on this one was a single knob, rather than the two in the shower at the suite. Not that telling her this would have changed her tour. She went on to explain about meal times—the padawan could nearly follow the key points of that explanation. Misshi then went on the mime drinking. Obi-Wan thought he heard the words  bulsk and soon, but she did speak incredibly fast, so he couldn’t be sure.   
  
    With a smile she said goodbye, and as quietly and suddenly as she came, she left.   
  
    Alone again, Obi-Wan inspected the clothes Misshi had left for him. They seemed to be of a standard cut mass produced for the working classes, with adjustable ties and of a bland, bluish grey color. The pants were loose, and the shirt was long-sleeved and baggy, hem dropping to mid-thigh.    
  
    Folding them neatly, Obi-Wan set them down and gave into the urge to observe his master, walking over to stand next to the bed. After standing still long enough to ascertain Qui-Gon was still breathing, the young man let go of the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. It was illogical, obviously he was still alive since the nurse just visited and the readings were still registering, but the man’s breath was so shallow, so imperceptible, Obi-Wan had to be sure. Irrational misgivings soothed, the padawan gave into his next strongest desire: a shower.   
  
    Once finished bathing, wonderfully free of dirt and in equally clean clothes, Obi-Wan noticed the sky outside had lightened imperceptibly and just inside the door of the darkened room sat a cart. On closer inspection, he found a mug of steaming, warm liquid and thought back to Nurse Misshi’s comment about  bulsk . He brought it up to his nose and sniffed. It smelt odd, pungent, yet sweet, and hesitantly he tried a sip. It was a little hot, but not unpleasant. Obi-Wan couldn’t decide if it reminded him of tea, or hot apple cider.   
  
    Brining the  bulsk over to a chair by the window, Obi-Wan sat down and sipped thoughtfully. He watched the imperceptible changes in the night began to subtly give way to the coming dawn. The drink was having a wonderful effect on his sore throat, and that combined with the hot shower meant he felt better than he had for days. Everything was still so uncertain. Finally feeling at least a little relaxed and slightly less miserable, Obi-Wan felt his eyelids begin to droop. With a resolution to meditate after some more sleep and to get some answers from whoever came by the next day—rather, this day, he set down the cup, curled up under the sheets and fell into a surprisingly restful slumber.   
  
  
  
    From his seat near the window, Obi-Wan could hear the cheering of a crowd in the distance. One half of the frame could be slid back to allow outside air in, though covering the side that opened was an incredibly strong mesh. After breakfast, a morning visit from Dr. Shehlal and a rather difficult time explaining he wanted his clothes laundered to the on duty nurse, or at least a spare set from their suite, and he still wasn’t sure she understood even though she left with the clothes, the padawan was rather enjoying a quiet lunch to himself, along with another glass  bulsk . It seemed the drink had been ordered as an addition to his meals.   
  
    Unfortunately Obi-Wan still hadn’t had a chance to meditate. It was eerie in the room, with Qui-Gon present, and yet still so distant. While the  bulsk helped him breath, the urge to cough was only diminished and his sinuses still ached horribly; that and the constant flow of people in and out of the room had kept him from being able to concentrate. Now, at least he could eat in peace and watch the goings on in the court yard. Some tables had been set up and various figures were eating lunch in the sunlight. One group in particular caught Obi-Wan’s attention. While most people wore a blue and yellow bandana, a small group wore sashes over one shoulder sporting the two colors in long, bright stripes. They seemed to be heatedly discussing something while drinking, a few eating the pasty pockets commonly baked for a portable lunch on Lenoia. After a time they broke apart, most of them heading back where they emerged from, but one struck out across the courtyard with long strides, passing almost directly under his window. Something told Obi-Wan that he wouldn’t have peace and quiet for much longer.   
  
    Not a minute later, time enough for Obi-Wan to hand his lunch tray off to the nurse and sit back down, there was a knock at the door and the very man he’d just been watching entered. He was somewhat short for a Lenoia, only a touch taller than Obi-Wan, with a slight paunch and a smile that seemed to be glued to his face. His skin color was on the reddish side, even for a Lenoian, and dark hair ruthlessly combed back, his completely black eyes seemed to bulge out of his face; the smile that was meant to be ingratiating merely reminded the padawan of a horrible grimace.   
  
    When he marched straight across the room, Obi-Wan only had just enough time to stand before his arm was gripped in a powerful handshake, and the man boomed out “Greetings, Greetings, I am Juslath Mustally, who do I have the privilege of addressing?”   
  
    “Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, sir,” Obi-Wan was glad when the man finally released his hand.   
  
    He felt terribly awkward wearing something other than his usual robes, and fumbled when he didn’t have wide enough sleeves to slip his arms into the way he usually would.   
  
    “No need for formalities, my boy, we are all equals here, all equals,” Mustally said, as if he meant to put Obi-Wan at ease, although to the young man he sounded terribly condescending.   
  
    “It is a shame about Master Jinn, a terrible shame,” the man said with artificial gravity; Obi-Wan was beginning to wonder why every one seemed to know who is master was, but had no knowledge of his identity, as if a padawan was somehow below notice, “It is unfortunate he was there at the time of the attack. But some sacrifices are necessary in the war for Liberty. Some casualties are unavoidable, but no less tragic. In the ideal world, only the enemies of Liberty, Peace and the People would fall, but, alas, it is not so,” Mustally shook his head slowly, as if in grief, “Do sit down,” he said, gesturing to a seat while sitting in the opposite chair, “You must have so many questions, so many questions. I volunteered to come and speak with you—and understand, when I answer, it is not just for myself, but for the Party, and for the People. Please, ask away.”   
  
    For a moment Obi-Wan had no idea where to begin, so much had happened since the day before, but eventually he decided to ask the question that had been burning in his mind from the beginning, “What happened?”   
  
    Obi-Wan wondered for a moment if he should be more specific, but Mustally just nodded and said, “The revolution, my boy, the revolution. The People could no longer bear the oppression, the absurd privileges, of the Elite. The time had come for true Liberty, true Justice, not false promises and equivocation. The Party has been planning, waiting for this day, and it is finally here. The dawn of a new age has come, my boy, no more, no less.”   
  
    “But what exactly occurred yesterday?”   
  
    “What you witnessed yesterday was the culmination of years of painstaking planning and organization. The time of tyranny and suffering caused by the Elite and the enemies of Liberty and Justice has come to an end, as all such evil must. The Delegation meeting here was precisely the kind of opportunity we’ve been waiting for. Key members of the party coordinated an attack on the Delegation, taking out important members of the Elite while also sending the message to the tyrants that they are not all powerful. At the same time the People in many districts rose up and took key government buildings and munitions stores. The city is now in the hands of the People, as it should be.”   
  
    “What about the Delegation security, surely—“   
  
    “Years of planning, my boy, years of planning,” said Mustally with one eyebrow raised and a confident smirk.   
  
    Training in diplomacy and seeing past such colorful language served Obi-Wan well, as he could sense Mustally doing his best to influence the young man with his considerable charisma. Though Obi-Wan remained unaffected, and Mustally had not given him a clear answer, the padawan decided to let the matter drop. Even if he asked for details, the politician, as Obi-Wan decided the man must be, would only give him more vague answers. He therefore moved on the next pressing question, “I don’t mean to sound impertinent, by why are we being treated here, and why the security?”   
  
    “Ah,” sighed Mustally, leaning back and folding his hands on the table, “That is a delicate question indeed, but not unwarranted. You are curious, naturally, as to your particular situation. Now, understand, the presence of Jedi, even the possibility of ambassadors from the Senate, was unexpected, quite unexpected. The Party is somewhat divided over your fate. Some Party Leaders believe you are a danger to the revolution, other Leaders, such as myself, believe you are merely unfortunate victims of circumstance. You must see, however, that we have lit upon a compromise. Some are content to keep you here as prisoners, but I must emphasize it is also for your own protection, your own protection, my boy. Your opponents and the Mob know very little of Jedi but fairly tales, fantasies, they do not understand your ways; what we do not understand, we fear, and that is why you must stay here where you are protected—both from censure and needlessly defending yourself against those who know no better. If you are concerned for your Master, have no fear, none whatsoever. This building contains a fully equipped medical facility. Though of a shady past, we will now use for the befit of the revolution and purify its sordid history with the light of Liberty.”   
  
    With Mustally’s rather verbose answer seemingly finished, Obi-Wan decided to ask a different question. Though he wanted a clear answer, he didn’t know how long the politician would stay, or when he would get a chance to ask questions again, “Our spare clothes, our comm. link, they were left in our suite, may we collect them or have them fetched? And what of our lightsabers?”   
  
    “I will send someone to see what can be done. I’m afraid there was a great deal of looting during the uprising, and there may be little enough to find. However, concerning you comlink, it unfortunately will be confiscated,” though Obi-Wan had done his best to remain impassive, his eyes narrowed at this. Mustally, seemed to notice and elaborated, “It has been decided to limit communication off planet, and even between the Lenoia and other states. You see, the revolution must be allowed to take root, to bring order, before we can allow unwarranted interference. Your lightsabers are safely locked in the city armory, stored in a special compartment of which only Durarr has the key. He is the head of the Public Safety Committee just formed today. As you see, they are kept out of any… inconvenient hands.”   
  
Including inconvenient Jedi, Obi-Wan thought sarcastically, but carefully kept his expression neutral. With a brief glance at his chronometer, Mustally smiled his unnerving smile, and said, “I’m very sorry, very sorry indeed, but I have little time to spare. Do you have anymore questions, my dear boy?”   
  
    “Nothing pressing, I wouldn’t want to keep you from an important engagement,” Obi-Wan replied, the smile on his face equally false-feeling.    
  
    “I must be off,” Mustally said and they both stood, shaking hands one more time.   
  
    Once more the door was shut and Obi-Wan was left with nothing but and unconscious Qui-Gon and his thoughts for company. Sitting back down in the chair Obi-Wan surprised to find he was shaking, he hadn’t been before. Coughing into his arm, and looking back out the window he could see the Politian crossing the courtyard again, which was now mostly empty. When he was able to breathe again, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but wonder if he’d handled the situation correctly. Should he have asked more detailed questions? Or was it better to seem compliant, avoiding looking too curious? Qui-Gon would have known what to do, the young man was sure of it, and done a better job. Now, more than ever, he missed his master’s calming presence, his experience and cool headedness. It was finally coming home to him that Qui-Gon was gravely injured. Before, he had just been living from moment to moment, too tired to resist and content to see what would happen naturally. Now his tendency to look ahead was returning full force, and things did not look good. Though Qui-Gon always emphasized the importance of the Living Force and embracing the present, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but wonder how they would get out of this predicament.   
  
    Taking a measured breath, Obi-Wan decided to attempt to meditate. His sore, achy head, painful throat and sinuses made it difficult to concentrate, but he needed to—he had to clear his mind, instead of allowing his doubts and insecurities to dominate.    
  
    When the nurses came in later to check Qui-Gon’s condition, Obi-Wan was certain of one thing: he must wait. Though his entire being itched to be doing  something , he must wait for his master’s condition to improve, wait to see just what was in store, for them and Koshol as a city. He must wait for more information, for an opportunity. After all, moving Qui-Gon would be a conundrum in its self, let alone without any concrete plan.   
  
    As Mustally said, this was the dawn. The revolution was young yet, and Obi-Wan was resolved to be patient, gather his strength, and wait to see what the new day would bring.


	4. Is This Tomorrow

    If it hadn’t been for his Jedi training, Obi-Wan would have been suffering severely from boredom. With nothing to do between the doctor’s and nurses’ visits, Obi-Wan had a great deal of time to work on his meditation, and when not meditating he watched the courtyard and listened to what he could hear of the wider world. Those activities were the only things keeping him from pacing up and down the room like a caged animal. He was almost tempted to do it anyway just to get some exercise, except for the vague suspicion that once he started pacing, he would be unable to stop. It had been three days since Obi-Wan had met the politician, and since then he’d seen no one but the medical staff and every so often he’d get a peek of the guards.    
  
    Sometimes it seemed Qui-Gon would stir, or make some noise, but when Obi-Wan would go over to look, he was as still as he had always been. The padawan occasionally wondered if he’d imagined the sound, though Dr. Lemmy, as he’d begun to think of Lemleshor, said it was a common enough occurrence and a good sign. There were times Obi-Wan found himself talking out loud as if Qui-Gon could hear him, although it was often about things he would never normally discuss with his master. Often times it was just mundane matters, like dinner or the fact that one of the settings on the shower seemed to spit tiny beads of water out like daggers, other times it was about their situation and the various speculations he’d put together from the little information he gleaned from watching the courtyard, what Mustally had said and his prior knowledge. But, every now and again, he would catch himself thinking out loud, sharing his anxieties, his deepest thoughts and insecurities, and it was these times Obi-Wan fervently wished Qui-Gon could not hear him.   
  
    It was nearing evening, but Obi-Wan could sill hear the distant cheering from a crowd through the open window and, not for the first time, wondered what it was about. Dr. Lemleshor was due for his visit soon, and Obi-Wan found himself looking forward to it. At least the doctor knew how and was willing to speak to him, most other Lenoians treated him as if he didn’t exist or had some deadly disease.    
  
    “Hello Obi-Wan, how are you feeling today?” asked Dr. Lemleshor immediately after knocking and opening the door.   
  
    “Better, I think,” said Obi-Wan after clearing his throat. His cough had gone from dry and painful to rather phlegmy and painful, but his head felt better and he was less sore.   
  
    “I am glad to hear it,” the doctor said with a smile before focusing on his other patient.   
  
    Obi-Wan was so used to this routine he didn’t pay any particular attention and looked out the window, once again listening to the crowd’s cheer. Without even thinking the padawan said out loud, “I wonder what they’re cheering about.”   
  
    The young man was surprised to see Dr. Lemleshor so close beside him when he replied, oddly somber, “They are watching the  varyars do the  Nishmava .”   
  
    “A courtly dance?” asked Obi-Wan, confusion obvious in his voice and expression.   
  
    Dr. Lemleshor turned and regarded him with surprise. The doctor’s expression slowly transformed into a pained smile, “Of course, you wouldn’t know. ‘Dancing the  Nishmava ’ has come to mean watching the hanging of the elites, because their feet twitch at the end of the rope like a dance,” he must have seen the horror on Obi-Wan’s face for he added, “It used to be the  varyars were exempt from hanging as a punishment, now all criminals are punished equally regardless of class. It is often true that the oppressed enjoy seeing their oppressors brutally punished, and the Party knows this.   
  
    With as shooing motion of his hand, Dr. Lemleshor abruptly changed the subject, “Ah, too much of this, I have brought you something. I know it must be very dull to be trapped in here, and I have pulled some strings. It took some time, but I finally have permission to give you this.”   
  
    From out of one of his large coat pockets he pulled something that looked rather like a data pad, though a little clumsier and older.   
  
    “You can use this to watch the local broadcasts and to read many books from a data library, with quite a few selections in Basic. Most of the broadcasts will be in Lenoian, but some programs are serials from Coruscant, though I cannot promise they have any worthwhile content.”   
  
    Obi-Wan smiled and took the proffered pad, “Thank you.”   
  
    “It is nothing,” said Dr. Lemleshor waving away the sentiment, “It is cruelty indeed to allow you to waste away in here with nothing to occupy your mind. Now, about Master Jinn, his condition is stable, but then neither has his state improved. Has he shown any movement or signs of waking since my last visit?”   
  
    The doctor’s easy transition from mundane matters to medical questions surprised Obi-Wan, as he found himself answering as easily as if Lemleshor had asked a question about his favorite genre of music or the weather, “I thought I heard him move once, or even make a little sound, but I can’t say for certain.”   
  
    Lemleshor shook his head slowly, put a hand gently on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, “I know you’ll report any changes. Take care, kid.”   
  
    And with a small smile he was gone and onto his next patient, Obi-Wan left wondering how his dark eyes could look so compassionate, and the other doctor’s eyes so cold. Over these few days they had built up something of a rapport, and Obi-Wan was beginning to hope that if anyone would tell him exactly what was going on, it would be Lemleshor. Somehow, the doctor could see through his façade of calm and sense his anxieties. Never before had he felt so helpless, and though the doctor’s sympathy provided some comfort, it was about as effective as using a pebble to dam a stream.    
  
    Instead of letting himself brood like he would have when he was younger, Obi-Wan distracted himself with Lemleshor’s gift. After a little fiddling he found the on switch and spent a good while figuring out the controls and programs. While the doctor was very considerate, when it came to little things he was rather absent-minded. He rarely explained things he thought were common knowledge, though was always willing enough to discuss complex biological and philosophical topics. The oversight didn’t bother the padawan. He preferred figuring it out for himself rather than the fussing and hovering Nurse Misshi indulged in. Never having had a grandmother Obi-Wan was rather unaccustomed to being constantly attended to during her visits.    
  
    Somehow or other Obi-Wan managed to activate the video function and was startled by the sudden blast of sound coming from the small device. It took him longer to find the volume control than was comfortable, when he finally adjusted it to a reasonable level, the padawan was surprised to see the politician who had visited him days ago giving and impassioned speech. Mustally was gesticulating and emphasizing each word with his fist, dark eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. Frequent bouts of spontaneous cheering forced him to pause now and again. Though the content of the speech was beyond Obi-Wan’s limited skills in Lenoian, he was amused when he was able to hear the politicians habit of repetition apparently carried over into his speeches—or originated from them. Behind the politician were a few rows of raised benches, many of the occupants wearing sashes or at least bandannas. Obi-Wan was shocked to recognize Dr. Shehlal in the crowd, still wearing her same fierce expression.    
  
    The occasional shots shown of the crowd were fascinating to the young man; here were hundreds of faces, maybe thousands, turned toward the podium listening, with banners and home made signs creating a sea of blue, yellow, and the ruddy colored skin. Though, occasionally in the crowd and over to the side in a tight little group there were off-worlders: other races Obi-Wan was more familiar with. It reminded him of the fact that much of the current tension on the planted was also caused by the large alien population that had been slowly increasing since the planet opened the way for immigration. Obi-Wan remembered reading about the very strict class system that had been in place for many years on the planet Varsis as a whole. Lenoia had made some progress towards a more egalitarian system, although class was still deeply rooted in their culture and modes of thought.   
  
    Before he could watch anymore, dinner arrived. Afterwards Obi-Wan contented himself with flipping through the rest of the available channels and figuring out how to access the library. He found himself yawning and was surprised by how much time had passed. It was well after dark and the clock read 28.49, Varsian Time, and he usual went to bed at about 2 standard hours earlier when the lights automatically dimmed. Quickly readying himself for bed, Obi-Wan curled beneath the covers and dropped off to sleep.   
  
  
  
    Obi-Wan woke suddenly, his eyes flew open and it seemed as if ever muscle in his body was wound tight. He’d heard a sound, and while his mental processes slowly emerged from sleep, the sluggish thought filtered through that it was an unusual sound—nothing like the shuffling of the night-duty nurse, Misshi.   
  
    Then the sound repeated, and his head swerved towards the source. The low keening sound was unlike anything he had heard, but it most certain came from Qui-Gon. Without hesitation, Obi-Wan nearly leapt out of bed and stood at his master’s side. Through the darkened gloom, the padawan could just barely see Qui-Gon’s chest rise and fall. But he waited, eyes wide in the darkness searching for any sign of deviation from what over the past few days had come to be the norm, his ears straining to hear even the slightest of sounds. Eventually Obi-Wan had to remember to allow himself to breathe, as he’d been holding back so as to avoid making any competing noise.   
  
    But the sound did not return, nor did his master stir. Soon heavy limbs forced Obi-Wan to pull up a chair beside the bed and sit down. His head soon followed, and he was resting it on the bed, eyes drooping, trying to focus on his master’s face. However, it was a losing battle, and soon sleep re-claimed the young man.   
  
The streets were dark and tangled, the houses so close they nearly leaned up against each other. All around was a feeling of danger, of impenetrability. As he ran through them, only just barely avoiding crashing into walls or other people around sharp turns, Obi-Wan felt a deep, curling sense of dread compelling him relentlessly onward. He felt nauseous, dizzy and clumsy, but he could not stop. Eventually, when it seemed he could run no more, he came upon a terrible scene. There on the hard ground lay his master, bent and bleeding as he had found him all those days ago. Obi-Wan felt himself shout “No!” involuntarily.   
  
    Stumbling to his master’s side, the padawan gathered Qui-Gon up in his arms. The older man was looking at him earnestly, sadly, and his mouth moved, but no sound came out. Obi-Wan’s vision blurred, and as Qui-Gon reached up to touch his face, he could feel the jedi’s life force ebb, until it faded away.   
  
    Qui-Gon Jinn was gone.   
  
    Obi-Wan doubled over, pulling the body close, he could feel himself sobbing, but nothing— nothing,  could animate the now lifeless limbs, nothing could bring his master back. Everything about the man was gone, his pulse of life, his presence in the Force; Obi-Wan felt the most terrible pain, as if a part of his own body had been ripped away, except that is was a part of his soul and the pain was all the greater.   
  
    “What will happen to me now?” asked a small, frightened voice.   
  
    When Obi-Wan looked up, the wide eyes of an unfamiliar boy greeted him, “I don’t know, why would I know?” he said with a touch of desperation; why was this boy intruding on this most private moment?   
  
    “I knew it,” the boy cried out with childish petulance, “You never cared for me!”   
  
    And with that declaration the boy spun around and ran off into the winding dark.   
  
    “Wait!” called Obi-Wan as he leapt to his feet, “Don’t go that way! It’s dangerous!”   
  
    He chased after the boy as he yelled, somehow knowing the boy had inadvertently ran down the wrong path, the winding streets threatening to swallow his small form… or were they cliffs?    
  
    “Stop! Come back! You’re going the wrong way!”   
  
    But it was as if the boy could not hear him, and the faster Obi-Wan ran to catch up, the faster the boy escaped him. The sun set behind them, a blaze of red and orange casting vast shadows. The path spread out before them in this darkness, and he chased after the boy into that vast field. Obi-Wan knew he must catch the boy before it was too late, and he put on an extra burst of speed, even though his limbs seemed sluggish and unresponsive.   
  
    He slowly began to gain on the boy, but just as he was closing in, darkness fell and the boy was swallowed by a black chasm. Obi-Wan cried out, but soon the ground was crumbling beneath his own feet and he was tumbling into that same void, free falling, and it was as if thousands upon thousands of voices, young and old, deep and shrill, were screaming their last breath, the cacophony of sound overpowering all of Obi-Wan’s senses. It was Horror, it was mindless panic—other’s, his own, Obi-Wan could not tell, but it consumed him.   
  
    Then came the terrible, sudden silence.   
  
    Obi-Wan snapped awake, panting for breath, throat sore as if he’d been screaming. But what shocked him even more was the hand gently stroking his hair, and the familiar voice whispering hoarsely, “Hush, hush, my Padawan,”    
  
    In the darkness he could hardly make out the line of the older man’s face, “What was it?”   
  
    “I… I dreamed about… dark, winding streets,” Obi-Wan was ashamed his voice was so completely out of his control, it was even breaking, but the feeling of relief that flooded him overpowered any self consciousness, “I dreamed… you had… gone… that you died.”   
  
    His throat closed up then, and Obi-Wan could no more continue than he could stop the tears from rolling down his face. But the hand was still there, ruffling his already messy hair, and that familiar voice spoke from the shadows, “I am here… I am here…”


	5. The Rising Tide

    Obi-Wan woke the next morning with a painful crick in his neck. He blearily looked over at the person who was tapping his shoulder insistently, blinking a few times before groaning and stretching his neck with a crack. It was none other than Nurse Misshi who had been prodding him with her long, boney fingers. As soon as he was awake enough, she excitedly pressed a large bundle into his arms and launched into a detailed explanation, almost none of which Obi-Wan understood. His sleep fogged mind sluggishly mulled over what she was doing here, as he had been under the impression this last shift was her night off because there had been a different nurse on call. Eventually she finished her monologue with a proud grin and a pat on his shoulder. Indulging in a pinch of his chin, Misshi left with a little flourish and a goodbye.   
  
    Taking a look at the bundle in his arms, he was surprised to find it was Qui-Gon’s cloak. Wrapped inside were various pieces of their Jedi clothes, though neither had a complete outfit. There was a pair of trousers, probably Qui-Gon’s and Obi-Wan’s belt, sash and overlay*, though the basic robe and under-robe were missing. Qui-Gon’s spare robe was included, though it was a rather travel-worn piece of clothing. Fortunately Qui-Gon’s boots were included along with their belts, though they were stripped of any gear. Obi-Wan sighed in relief, no clothing item was more essential than a good pair of well fitted footwear considering the active life of a Jedi Knight.   
  
    As he sorted through the items, Obi-Wan remembered Misshi had been wearing street clothes, rather than her nurse’s uniform, and bits of the conversation filtered back to him. She had made mention to the building their suite had been in, and many references to “medical” this or that, and people’s names, doctors and nurses. She had repeated the words “difficult” and “lucky” many times. Obi-Wan smiled a private little smile when he realized she must have gone in search of their clothes herself, and his heart warmed to the little old lady.   
  
    Besides Misshi’s visit, Obi-Wan’s morning was hardly different than every other morning he’d had since being held in the sick ward, as he’d started to think of the room. For all the banality of the day, he could not shake the uneasy feeling that had lodged its self in his mind since the night before. Worst of all he could find no reason for his apprehension. That was, until Dr. Shehlal’s visit a little before midday.   
  
    When the Doctor came in, she seemed unusually distant and distracted. The nurses were tiptoeing around her even more than usual She even dropped one of her instruments, which a male nurse quickly snatched up and returned it to her hand before she even bent over.   
  
    Having finished her examination of Qui-Gon, she turned as if about to leave and Obi-Wan quickly cleared his throat and called, “Dr. Shehlal!”   
  
    She spun around, surprise reaching her eyes alone, and said, “What is it, Apprentice Kenobi? Your cold?”   
  
    “No,” said Obi-Wan, “Last night, I think Master Jinn woke up.”   
  
    “You  think ?” the disdain in her voice was hardly disguised.   
  
    “I… woke up from a… bad dream, and he spoke to me, reached out and touched me,” Obi-Wan carefully chose his words this time; Dr. Shehlal was obviously in a sour mood.   
  
    “Could you see anything? Did you observe his eyes?” she asked with probing bluntness.   
  
    “No, it was too dark, everything was in shadow.”   
  
    “And you are absolutely certain he was speaking? That he was not just moving or mumbling incoherently?”   
  
    “I am certain,” Obi-Wan said with a self-assured nod.   
  
    Dr. Shehlal narrowed her eyes and ran one hand thoughtfully down the length the necklace she wore, “Is it not possible that you could have been merely half-awake, and dreamed this incident?”  
  
    “No, I was awake,” replied Obi-Wan with conviction, but he could see she doubted him.   
  
    “Well, in either case, I am sorry to say this morning I have noted no significant change in Master Jinn’s condition. Unfortunately I am very busy and must continue my rounds, but if his state does change do not hesitate to alert the staff, as you should have done last night.”   
  
    With that imperious statement she spun around and left the room with conspicuous haste. Obi-Wan was shocked by her unusually brusque manner; while she could hardly be described as warm and sympathetic, this harsh disregard was something the padawan had never witnessed before. What could possibly cause such an extreme reaction?   
  
    Obi-Wan suddenly felt a growing sense of guilt. She was right, he should have told someone immediately last night, and instead he had allowed himself to be lulled back to sleep. Walking over to his master’s bedside and taking his hand, Obi-Wan looked closely for any change in Qui-Gon’s expression or sign of wakefulness. Disappointingly, he looked exactly as he had the day before. The padawan was even beginning to wonder if the doctor had been right, maybe he had imagined it all.   
  
    Obi-Wan shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. No, it had happened, he was as sure of that as he was of his own name. He felt Qui-Gon’s presence through the Force that night in a way no dream could replicate. Briefly Obi-Wan considered the possibility that his Master was merely asleep, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Though Dr. Shehlal was cold and arrogant, she was an expert and clamed there was no change. Obi-Wan was forced to admit even he could tell this sleep was unnatural. With a sigh he released his master’s hand and went to open the window and watch the courtyard, as he had done every day since they first arrived. That’s when he spotted the pad on the table and smiled, remembering Dr. Lemleshor’s gift. Perhaps he would be more willing to listen.   
  
    Contenting himself for the moment with little device, Obi-Wan managed to while away the time before lunch. After his meal he gave up on the vid feature, as most channels contained over-wrought melodramas or news, one of which was a particularly disturbing live broadcast of the trials and scaffold. He’d just settled down to read a short novel after tackling the rather cumbersome browsing system when he heard a soft keening sound.   
  
    Slowly lowering the pad to the table, Obi-Wan looked over to where Qui-Gon lay. Though it was an eerie, almost inhuman sound, it was definitely coming from the older man. The padawan was on his feet and at his master’s side in a matter of seconds, just in time to hear the keening change into an incoherent mumbling, which was hardly any more reassuring. This time he made sure to press the call button before leaning over and speaking to Qui-Gon, “Master? … Master can you hear me?”   
  
    There was no change to indicate he’d heard.   
  
    In moments a nurse arrived, and Obi-Wan was rather disappointed to note it was the nervous young woman who usually had barely enough courage to slide the tray in the door. This time she showed more professional spirit and rushed to the side of the bed, reading the monitors, but hesitating to reach out and touch the patient. She looked helplessly at Obi-Wan and asked him something he did not understand.   
  
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you said. I think he’s waking up.”   
  
    Before Obi-Wan could finish his sentence, Qui-Gon’s mumblings suddenly increased in volume, then began to slowly die away. The two spectators had instinctually leaned in closer so they could hear what the patient said, even though he was speaking little more than gibberish. Qui-Gon gave a sudden jolt, his arm twitching close to the nurse. She let out an ear piercing scream and fled the room.   
  
    “Wait!” Obi-Wan called after, but she was already out the door with it closing automatically behind her.   
  
    Left alone once more, Obi-Wan could only glance worriedly at his master’s restless form and attempt to interpret the monitors. After he had just decided which reading was the heart rate and was attempting to decipher the others, the nurse returned followed by a disheveled and groggy Dr. Lemleshor.   
  
    “Dr. Lemmy!” said Obi-Wan, surprised to see the man this early. He usually stopped by later in the afternoon.   
  
    Dr. Lemleshor did not speak, but immediately began observing the patient, checking Qui-Gon’s vitals, eyes, reaction to pain, and other signs. Once he was finished, the doctor turned to Obi-Wan and asked, “How long has he been like this?”   
  
    “Maybe a minute.”   
  
    Dr. Lemleshor nodded and put the instrument he’d been using back in his pocket, “Is this the first time he has been in this state?”   
  
    Obi-Wan hesitated, Dr. Shehlal’s disdain surfacing in his mind, but he pushed the doubts she fostered aside and said, “There was last night.”   
  
    “Was it similar?”   
  
    Qui-Gon had quieted a little and Dr. Lemleshor’s no non-sense questions calmed the hectic atmosphere. Obi-Wan hadn’t even realized his heart was racing until it began to slow.   
  
    “I… no.”   
  
    “Please describe what happened as precisely as you can,” said the doctor, his dark eyes gazing penetratingly at the young jedi.   
  
    Obi-Wan carefully recounted the events of the night before, though he left out the details of his dream, as they seemed irrelevant.   
  
    “Could you see his face at all?” asked the doctor.   
  
    “No, it was too dark.”   
  
    Dr. Lemleshor looked off to the side, deep in thought. Eventually he quietly murmured, almost to low to hear, “That is unusual indeed.”   
  
    He turned back to Obi-Wan with his usual confident manner, and said “We won’t know the level of damage until he reaches a higher level of consciousness, but this is a sign of improvement. It is possible he will become more physically agitated, in which case you must call the staff immediately so that we may restrain him to prevent damage to his other injuries. He may also fall back into a more sleep-like state. Otherwise, you need only call if he becomes coherent or appears to be aware of his surroundings.”   
  
    Obi-Wan simply nodded.    
  
    Dr. Lemleshor reached out and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, and asked, “How are you doing?”   
  
    Clearing his throat a little self consciously, Obi-Wan replied, “My cold’s better, just a little phlegm.”   
  
    “That is not what I meant.”   
  
    “I’m fine,” said Obi-Wan with a forced smile, “However, I’ve been meaning to ask, don’t you have a rotating schedule?”   
  
    The doctor seemed caught off guard by the question but answered willingly enough, “In a usual hospital setting, yes. But I have a room here and have been assigned permanent duty. It’s a little bit like out on the field. I suppose the Party believes I am equal to the challenge because of my experience as a medical officer.”   
  
    Obi-Wan was surprised, “So you live here?”   
  
    “I suppose I do, now. I have an apartment in the city, but… even if I wanted to… let us just say that it is much safer here than in the streets,” he admitted ruefully.   
  
    “What exactly is going on? No one will tell me.”   
  
    A troubled expression swiftly crossed Lemleshor’s face, but he replied in his usual tone, “If I’m to answer that, I must first ask how much you know about the late government’s electoral system?”   
  
    “To be honest, we focused more on customs and the particular situation when studying Varsis.”   
  
    Lemleshor nodded, “Before the War, Lenoia had gone through a period of upheaval and established a new form of government. The other nations still have some form of monarchy, but ours became a ‘democracy.’ However, this change was most beneficial to the nobles and wealthy middle class, and the new constitution reflected that. Only those with a certain amount of property or wealth were allowed the vote. They became known popularly as the  varyars, roughly translated as the ‘elite’ or ‘first citizens.’ The rest of the citizens had to struggle on as before, but this time with out the perceived ‘protection’ of a monarch from their land lords. The influx of foreign peoples and space age industrialization also heightened tensions, especially in Koshol where there is a considerable working class population.    
  
    “The recent coup intends to install a true popular government. However, there are many tensions within the party. They could set aside their differences for the Revolution, but now… they are beginning to re-emerge. Such as between more moderate leaders and those who believe in universal suffrage; those who wish for only Lenoian’s to have to vote, or to include permanent alien residents. There is also a great debate on what to do with the  varyars . So far only those in political and government positions have been executed, but…”   
  
    The doctor trailed off, but Obi-Wan was perfectly capable of filling in the gap, “Dr. Lemmy,” he asked hesitantly, “How do you know all this?”   
  
    “Ob—kid, you may be in more d—“   
  
    But Lemleshor was interrupted by the boom of an explosion which rocked the building’s foundation, quickly followed by blaster fire and the sound of shouts as well as screams. Both the padawan and the doctor ran to the window, as if they could somehow see outside the courtyard and discover what had happened.   
  
    “From the sound and after shock, it must have been close, “said Dr. Lemleshor as they peered through the window, they could just see smoke rising from over the side of the building.   
  
    “What’s over in that direction?” asked Obi-Wan.   
  
    “It could have been the city square, or even the building they have been using for meetings…” Lemleshor turned to the young man with a grim expression, “I am sorry, kid, but I must leave you and discover what happened.”   
  
    Obi-Wan looked back with much the same solemnity, “I understand.”


	6. This Way to Progress

    Eight up, eight down: that was the number of steps it took Obi-Wan to cross the room lengthwise. If the floor was grass, he would have trodden it to dust long ago. The temperature had dropped, so he wore Qui-Gon’s cloak with his hands clasped behind his back, keeping the long hem from catching his feet. It was more for comfort than practicality—something about the familiar garment was calming. Little else about the situation was. It had been five days since the explosion, five days since Dr. Shehlal paid them a visit. Even worse, Dr. Lemleshor, who had been so forth coming before, had shut up as tight as a blast door and would only discuss medical matters. From the pad he could glean that there had been a major riot, ending in someone setting off some stolen explosives, culminating in a dramatic shift in political power. The politician Mustally was now on the news almost constantly, obviously in a leading role. Beside him there was often another, more ominous figure. He was a giant of a Lenoian, with small eyes and a forward lean that gave the impression he was always pushing ahead. They seemed to be on the same side, but the dark looks the tall man aimed towards his colleague made Obi-Wan doubt it would last.   
  
     All this, however, was not nearly enough to make the young Jedi pace like a caged animal. Obi-Wan knew there was nothing he could do to change what was happening in the larger world, and he did is best to accept that. What set him stirring was Qui-Gon’s fitful recovery. One moment he would be stirring, the next as still and silent as when they first brought him in. It was terrifying, how confused the Jedi Master could be. Obi-Wan would be sitting quietly, or eating lunch when the older man would cry out, or jerk and begin mumbling. The padawan stopped counting how many times he had to repeat to Qui-Gon that he was safe, in a hospital, and needed to stay still because he was injured. Usually he would quiet down, though Obi-Wan could not tell if it was merely because of the tone of his voice or if he actually understood. Every time it started Obi-Wan desperately hoped this time Qui-Gon would remember something, and each time he did not the young man felt as if he were slipping ever closer to breaking down in tears. Even if he felt secure enough, which he didn’t, Obi-Wan had no chance to meditate because of Qui-Gon’s restlessness. The only alley left towards his sanity was to allow himself to pace.   
  
    Obi-Wan halted mid-stride when he heard raised voices from the hallway. Quickly stepping closer, he pressed his ear to the door in order to hear what was happening. There was yelling, and the distinct noises of a scuffle that ended with the sliding sound of someone being dragged away.   
  
    Obi-Wan sighed and turned around to lean against the door with his eyes closed. This type of event had happened every day since the explosion. The sick ward had never been a noisy place, but each day he could hear more of the patients being lead away, the nurses had fewer visits to make. The sounds of regular, busy hospital life slowly died away. It was rather foreboding.   
  
    When he opened his eyes, Obi-Wan was shocked to find Qui-Gon sitting up in bed and staring at him. For the first time in his life, Obi-Wan knew what the saying “his heart leapt into his mouth” felt like. As his mind slowly recovering from the shock, the young man wondered when his master had sat up—perhaps when he was listening at the door? But most unsettling of all was the stare he was receiving from Qui-Gon. The man was looking at him with distrust and suspicion, not to mention he was completely silent. This had never happened before, and for a moment Obi-Wan was at a loss how to proceed.   
  
    “Master…” he quietly called, “Master… are you awake?”   
  
    At the sound of the young man’s voice, Qui-Gon’s expression slowly shifted to one of wary confusion. Obi-Wan slowly crept towards the bed, quietly repeating where they were and what injuries Qui-Gon had sustained. With every step, his voice lowered in volume until he stood completely silent at his master’s side.    
  
    Qui-Gon’s eyes roved over his features as if desperately searching for something, but finding only incomprehensible things. The young man found his own face beginning to mirror his master’s obvious distress. Hesitantly, Qui-Gon reached out and gently ran his fingers over Obi-Wan’s hair, his brow and down his nose, mapping out each feature. Obi-Wan felt his breath catch as the long, calloused fingers continued their journey over his lips to his chin and across his jaw. Then Qui-Gon gently took the padawan braid between his thumb and forefinger, letting the long braid trail between the tips until finally coming to rest on the last bead. With an audible sigh, the Jedi Master relaxed back into his pillow and said, relief evident in his voice, “Obi-Wan.”   
  
    “Master, are you feeling all right? Would you like me to page the doctor?”   
  
    “Yes… that would be best.”   
  
    When the Lemleshor came in, he looked worn and in need of rest, but genuinely relived to see Qui-Gon fully conscious. Obi-Wan watched as the doctor administered what appeared to be some standard tests for memory and brain function. Afterward Lemleshor explained to Qui-Gon, perhaps for the twentieth time, hopefully for the last, his condition and that he would be back later to perform a more thorough examination, though things were looking better. For the first time, Obi-Wan felt as if he were outside the consultation. While he disliked being ignored, he reasoned with himself that it was the way things should be and it meant Lemleshor considered Qui-Gon more able to take an active role in his treatment. Even so, the padawan couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps some of it was the fact that the doctor did not want to answer any questions he might ask.   
  
    After the doctor left, Qui-Gon looked worn out but managed to stay awake until their next meal arrived. The Jedi Master only nibbled on his food, but Obi-Wan was relived just the same that now he could at least eat on his own. It was distressing to see his master still so weak, and soon the older man had fallen back asleep. There had been so many questions Obi-Wan wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to discuss, but it seemed to be cruel to batter his master with such things when he was obviously exhausted from simply talking to the doctor.   
  
    As Obi-Wan lay awake that night he realized no magic cure-all was coming, nothing would be fixed simply by his master waking up. Something had to be done. That’s when he resolved to take an active role in there situation and try and form a plan himself. Though he’d never planned an escape before, he hoped he had at least enough past experience not to make a total botch of it. For better or worse things couldn’t be rushed, even if Qui-Gon was soon mentally stable, there were still his physical injuries to consider, and that gave Obi-Wan some time. First, he was going to chat with Misshi. Once he knew whether or he could rely on her help, it would be easier to from plan from there.


	7. To Progress this Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally the second part of chapter 6. Does that make the title too cheesy?

            Obi-Wan carefully spread out the thick piece of paper before him. On it was a very crude map of the compound and surrounding buildings. The unique feature of this map was that included certain rooms inside particular buildings. Nurse Misshi had drawn it herself and marked out specific rooms where things were stored—rooms she couldn’t go into herself. She was fairly certain one of them held the two Jedi’s lightsabers, at least that’s what Obi-Wan hoped she meant.

 

            With a deep breath to center himself, Obi-Wan prepared to go over the nascent plan he had been forming. He hoped to run it by his master after the older man finished bathing. Qui-Gon had been improving daily; Obi-Wan just hoped it was enough.

 

            Although his master’s mental and physical health was slowly returning, Obi-Wan felt as if the older man was hiding something. Qui-Gon had given him a strange look on several occasions and the padawan had trouble deciding what it meant. Even so, he worried they were running out of time. Both the general atmosphere and his connection with the Force left him with an undeniable sense of danger.

 

            When Qui-Gon exited the fresher after his shower, the strange sequence happened again. As soon as the older man noticed Obi-Wan, he stopped in his tracks, a guarded expression on his face.

 

            “Master?” said Obi-Wan, concerned by the older man’s behavior.

 

            Then Qui-Gon reached with the Force and gently, almost imperceptibly, brushed up against Obi-Wan’s mind, as if in a most perfunctory greeting. Then he visibly relaxed and smiled, as if he only just realized it was his padawan.

 

            That led Obi-Wan to consider the other strange thing: his master had been incredibly self-contained when it came to the Force. He could not tell if it was shielding or a general weakness caused by the injury, but it was obvious Qui-Gon was holding his powers close. They had always shared a deep connection, and while Obi-Wan had grown accustomed to his master’s diminished presence in the Force, moments like these brought the absence and resulting concern to the front of his mind—reminded him of his horrifying dream.

 

            However, Qui-Gon had yet to speak of these things, and Obi-Wan did not know how to broach the subject. The padawan decided to focus on what he did have control over.

 

            “Master, I have something I want to talk to you about.”

 

            “As do I,” said Qui-Gon, walking over to sit across from Obi-Wan at the small table.

 

            Once he was comfortably seated with his broken leg propped up on a spare stool, Qui-Gon said, “What would like to talk to me about?”

 

            Obi-Wan hesitated, and almost began, but then changed his mind, “You go first Master.”

 

            The padawan desperately told himself it was respect, and not fear of rejection that held him back.

 

            If Qui-Gon perceived the struggle in his apprentice’s mind, he said nothing, merely nodding.

 

            “I have something I must confess, my Padawan,” said Qui-Gon, the serious tone of his masters voice immediately claiming Obi-Wan’s full attention, “I hoped it might not be true, or that it would improve with time, but I find it is not so.”

 

            Obi-Wan desperate wished Qui-Gon would get to the point, the suspense was causing all sorts of ridiculous possibilities to flood his mind.

 

            “I have found that I am unable to… recognize people.”

 

            That was not at all what Obi-Wan had expected.

 

            “Does that mean…” the padawan hesitated to ask, but forged ahead regardless, “you don’t recognize _me_?”

 

            Qui-Gon sighed and reached over and took Obi-Wan’s braid between his fingers, something the padawan noticed he’d been doing with increasing frequency since his injuries.

 

            “It seems I cannot. I can recognize your voice, your unique presence in the force, your hair, but your face appears wholly… unfamiliar.”

 

            That explained so much of his master’s odd behavior, the searching looks, the brushes with the Force: he was actually testing to see who Obi-Wan was. The young man had no idea how to reply to this revelation, if a reply was at all necessary.

 

            “Has it been the same doctor since I awoke?” asked Qui-Gon, absorbing his apprentice’s silence without a missing a beat.

 

            “Yes, it has,” to Obi-Wan his voice sounded surprisingly small and far away.

 

            Qui-Gon nodded, “I thought so, but I couldn’t be sure.”

 

            “Do you… want to talk to him?”

 

            “Yes. I don’t think I’m going to heal on my own. I have been focusing most of my limit resources on aiding my physical recovery, but this is somewhat beyond my knowledge.”

 

            Some of what Qui-Gon said began to sink in, “Wait, Master, are you still very injured? Should you even be out of bed?”

 

            “Though putting strain on my injuries won’t help them heal, neither will letting myself waste away in bed,” said Qui-Gon with and indulgent smile, “I know my limits, Padawan.”

 

            Obi-Wan still had his concerns, but held his tongue. Last time he’d fussed over his master’s health he’d been compared to a mother hen, repeatedly, and he was in no mood to repeat the argument.

 

            When Dr. Lemleshor arrived, he looked near exhaustion, but listened as patiently as he ever had. After leaving to consult his diagnostic database he returned with the results.

 

            “Master Jinn,” he began in that tone of voice all doctors seem to have just before they give you bad news, no matter the planet or race, “Your symptoms appear to match the criteria as set forth by the I.G.D.A.* for prosopagnosia. Prosopagnosia is an impairment of the ability to recognize faces, though other object recognition remains intact. The location of your head injury also matches the usual location, and is the most probable cause of the impairment, as I am sure you have surmised. Unfortunately here on Varis we have devoted very little study to the treatment of such phenomena and my access to the Republic’s databases and referral system has been interrupted by the… political crisis here in Koshol. If there is any treatment, you would have to ask the appropriate specialists if you ca—when you return to Coruscant.”

 

            Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon exchanged a look at Lemleshor’s slip up near the end, but when Qui-Gon spoke it was as if no such exchange occurred, “Is there anything we _can_ do?”

 

            The doctor let out a long sigh, as if relived, and said, “It seems you are able to recognize some characteristics unrelated to facial structure, and that is all to the good. There have been cases of patients with your same symptoms functioning normally while using other cues, such as voice, hair color and the like, to identify others.”

 

            Qui-Gon nodded. Obi-Wan thought the conversation was over, but was taken by surprise when his master asked, completely out of thin air, “Are you the only doctor here, Lemleshor? You seem… over worked.”

 

            The doctor seemed just as surprised, but let out a laugh and brushed off the question, “Oh, I am the only certified doctor in this ward. Obi-Wan may have mentioned Dr. Shehlal, but she has moved on to more… political things. Do not let that worry you, my case load is getting lighter all the time.”

 

            The smile Dr. Lemleshor gave afterwards was the least sincere expression Obi-Wan had ever seen on his face and left him with a feeling of dread curling in the pit of his stomach.

 

            When they were once more alone Qui-Gon immediately turned to Obi-Wan and said, “All is not well here.”

 

            Obi-Wan nodded in agreement with a feeling of relief, at least he was not the only who sensed something was off.

 

            They sat in silence for a while before Qui-Gon broke it suddenly, “You wanted to tell me something before?”

 

            “Oh, yes!” Obi-Wan had completely forgotten he meant to tell his master about the plan he had been forming.

 

            The padawan took a good look at Qui-Gon before replying. His master was exhausted and Obi-Wan could see it in the deepened lines on the older man’s face along with his unnatural pallor. Obviously Qui-Gon was in no condition for an escape, and Obi-Wan realized he had not taken that into account while plotting with Misshi.

 

            Throwing aside his hesitation, Obi-Wan decided to at least make Qui-Gon aware of the possibility, “I have been… planning something, incase things become too dangerous.”

 

            “Oh, really?” said Qui-Gon, curiosity piqued.

 

            “While you were unconscious the night-nurse, Misshi, helped find some of our missing clothing. Now she has helped again with finding our lightsabers. She knows where they probably are, but cannot get in herself.”

 

            “Is she trustworthy?”

 

            “I believe so. It’s difficult for us to communicate, she doesn’t really speak common, but she’s been pretty insistent that her first priority is to preserve life. She hasn’t really said so, but her worried expressions make me think she believes we are in some danger. The plan is not really complete, it’s just a back up incase things turn ugly.”

 

            Qui-Gon nodded and said, “It’s not a bad idea.”

 

            “But…” Obi-Wan instinctively felt there was more.

 

            “But we must not get ahead of ourselves, there are still too many unknowns when it comes to the political situation, if what you told me before is true.”

 

            Obi-Wan could almost hear the comment about the Living Force coming, but instead Qui-Gon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I need rest; wake me when they bring the next meal.”

 

            “Yes, Master,” replied Obi-Wan, his concern for his master’s health returning.

 

            While Qui-Gon rested, Obi-Wan watched the current news with the sound muted. The past few days seemed to have been filled with an endless series of trials. The holovids of political rallies still had Mustally at the fore, but his brooding companion had begun to distance himself. As far as he could tell, the name of the man was Hroshis, though it may have been a title instead of a given name. Obi-Wan quickly switched off the pad when it became time for the live-feed of the hangings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *For the overly curious: I meant IGDA to stand for Inter-Galactic Diagnostic Association. They specialize in creating a standard diagnostic manual for most known species covering physical and mental illness and injury. It’s fun making up acronyms :)


	8. Some Wonderful and Righteous Work

            The next morning Obi-Wan was eating breakfast when he felt the familiar touch of the Force that meant Qui-Gon was awake and reaching out to “see” who he was. The Jedi Master slowly rose and joined him at the table. For a long time he did not speak, just stared at Obi-Wan intently as if trying to reconcile his features before giving up with a sigh and starting in on his portion.

 

            For the past two days Obi-Wan had hoped to discuss some of the strategies for working around Qui-Gon’s impairment, but the older man always brushed him off and changed the subject.

 

             “Your friend was not here last night,” said Qui-Gon after he finished chewing.

 

             “No… it’s strange, I didn’t think it was Misshi’s night off.”

 

            Qui-Gon wanted to meet her, but all the other nights he’d been fast asleep, too exhausted to stay up until she arrived.

 

            Before they could discuss anything further, their breakfast was interrupted by a host of Lenoians bursting in through the door.

 

            “Yes, those are the Jedi,” Obi-Wan was shocked to see the speaker was none other than Dr. Shehlal, who stood at the back of the group.

 

            Two burly Lenoians stepped forward, and a third rather weedy looking man nodded to Dr. Shehlal and followed behind, giving Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan a penetrating stare. Behind the weedy man were two other Lenoian men, one tall and the other with an unusual cropped hair style. With all the kindness he had received from Misshi and Dr. Lemleshor, Obi-Wan had forgotten how hostile and intimidating the completely black eyes of Lenoians could look. Now, with six pairs of dark eyes staring him and Qui-Gon down, the padawan was forced to admit to himself it was an event worthy of a nightmare. His Master, however, projected perfect calm in the face of the intrusion.        

 

            The weedy Lenoian opened his mouth as if about to speak, but at that exact moment Dr. Lemleshor burst in and loudly demanded to be told what was going on. At least, that is what Obi-Wan assumed, as the conversation following his outburst was entirely in Lenoian and at an unintelligibly fast rate. At first it was the two doctors who spoke loudly to each other, and with obvious mutual dislike. But the weedy man, who was by now obviously in some leadership position, rapped out several quick sentences, which were immediately followed by the two burly Lenoians physically removing Lemleshor from the room.

 

            With so many bodies crowded into the small space, there was some awkward shuffling after this scene, as the two strong-men took up their place by the door and the weedy leader stepped forward to face the Jedi with Shehlal on his right, the Lenoian with the short hair on his left, and the tall one standing behind.

 

            During the scuffle Qui-Gon had stood up. Obi-Wan was only able to slowly follow his Master’s example. Though the leader used no physical force, the Lenoian’s stare felt like a hand pressing him back into his seat.

 

            “Do you confess to being the foreign Jedi?” the leader’s voice was soft, but had an almost metallic edge and his accented common gave his words are peculiarly expressionless tone.

 

            “We are,” answered Qui-Gon, as steady and composed as if he were merely addressing the counsel back on Coruscant.

 

            The weedy Lenoian drew himself up, taking on an official air, and said, “I am Inspector Vassol. We are here in connection with an investigation for the People’s Tribunal. We will search your room. You will answer any questions put to you. Any objection or resistance will be taken as a sign of non-cooperation and complicity in the crime, leading to your immediate arrest.”

 

            Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan stood aside silently as the two Lenoians who had yet to speak made a sweeping search of the rooms, not that there was much to discover. They had the miss-matched clothes Misshi had found nearly two weeks ago out of the closet and messily deposited on the nearest bed in the blink of an eye. The short haired one began a careful search of the table and chairs while the tall one minutely inspected every corner and surface of the closet. They applied this same thoroughness mixed with disregard to the rest of the room, including the ‘fresher, and ending with the unceremonious stripping and dumping of the beds’ sheets and mattresses on the floor. What they emerged with for their pains was the data-pad, and the map.

 

            Vassol first took the data-pad from the tall man’s hands, and looked it over with an indifferent eye before handing it of to Dr. Shehlal.

 

            “This is only a standard issue recpad, it can only receive public transmissions and cannot export data,” said the doctor with an air of dismissal.

 

            “We shall confiscate it, just the same,” said the leader in the same cold tone, “This, however,” he continued, snatching the map from the short haired one’s grip, “appears to be much more interesting.”

 

            Vassol carefully looked over the map, even observing the blank side of the paper. When his face slowly formed a vicious closed-mouth grin, Obi-Wan was tempted to change his view of the man from “weedy” to “serpentine.”

 

            “The only question is,” he said without any change in inflection while staring directly at Qui-Gon, “How such a detailed, and… _compromising_ map came into your possession. Any thoughts?”

 

            Qui-Gon answered slowly and deliberately, “I am afraid my memory is not quite as good as it was before my injury.”

 

            “Is that so,” said Vassol as if it was a statement, but he gave the doctor a significant look.

 

            Shehlal took it as an invitation to comment, “Considering his injures, it is more than possible, it is probable.”

 

            “Very well… I am no expert, but this handwriting,” he said, motioning towards the map, “appears to match that of a nurse assigned to the night shift here, named Kira Misshi. Do you know her?”

 

            “I have never met her,” said Qui-Gon.

 

            It was the truth, but a selective one, and Obi-Wan could see Vassol was not satisfied. The padawan had been part of enough diplomatic discussions and interrogations to know a delicate fencing match of words was to follow, with Vassol leading the attack.

 

            “Surely you have seen her; she has been in and out of your room since you were admitted.”

 

            “I assure you, I have been asleep or unconscious… or delirious. I have no memory of any nurse on duty for the night.”

 

            “But you must know _of_ her.”

 

            Qui-Gon seemed to hesitate slightly before replying, “My padawan has mentioned her, yes.”

 

            “You must have some knowledge how this map came into your possession. Why the woman gave it to you.”

 

            “I have no certain knowledge of her motive for leaving the map, if it is indeed hers.”

 

            “Very well,” said Vassol after a weighty pause, his eyes narrowing to slits, “I see where we stand, for now.”

 

            The Lenoian slowly turned his gaze toward Obi-Wan, taking a long moment to consider the young man before speaking, “Perhaps you have something to add?”

 

            Obi-Wan could feel his master tense up beside him, though he made no motion. The padawan carefully said, “What my master said is true.”

 

            “Is it also true for you?”

 

            Obi-Wan hesitated before replying, “What are you asking?”

 

            The wicked grin returned and Obi-Wan began to doubt his decision to invite the questions Vassol was going to press in either case. “How did this map come into your possession?”

 

            Obi-Wan could sense Qui-Gon’s silent urgings that now was a good time to practice the “from a certain perspective” method of “telling the truth.” He also knew, instinctually, that being caught in a lie now could be more dangerous than being completely honest. “It was… left here.”

 

            “By whom?”

 

            After a moment of hesitation, Obi-Wan replied, “By the night nurse, Misshi.”

 

            Even if Obi-Wan had attempted to avoid the question, he could tell Vassol would have pressed until he had the answer he wanted. His next question, however, left more room for equivocation.

 

            “For what purpose was it left?”

 

            “That, I cannot say for certain. Misshi spoke almost no common, so our communication was limited.”

 

            Obi-Wan could see this answer displeased Vassol as he frowned and took a step closer to the padawan. He could also feel Qui-Gon tense up beside him, ready to spring into action if his apprentice was seriously threatened.

 

            “But surely, you must have reached _some_ level of understanding. A map such as this is hardly an accident.”

 

            Obi-Wan squirmed a little, but before he could reply Qui-Gon stepped in.

 

            “The boy is young, a mere apprentice; he is none of your concern. What ever he has done, it was done ignorance.”

 

            Something deep inside Obi-Wan resented his master’s disparaging comment, but he pushed the feeling down. He could sense Qui-Gon infusing his statement with the Force, and knew his master only meant to deflect Vassol’s questions. And yet, a part of himself railed against being dismissed as a “boy,” he was most certainly not a youngling! But it was a childish part, and Obi-Wan carefully suppressed the instinctual reaction.

 

            The short-haired Lenoian spoke up for the first time, and his accent was thick, “T’e boy isn noon ove owr problum. We’ve enuff, an’ t’e time is small.”

 

            The padawan could feel the Force suggestion at work, and noticed Dr. Shehlal give an almost perceptible nod. The tall one was unaffected, but Obi-Wan suspected he spoke no common, as his expression had remained the same the entire time. Vassol, however, looked unconvinced. He turned his piercing gaze back to Qui-Gon, and seemed to struggle inside for a moment before speaking.

 

            “Unfortunately, you are correct, Harrshir,” said Vassol, tension now obvious in his voice, although he did not turn to look at his short-haired companion.

 

            However, when he spoke to Qui-Gon again, the toneless quality had returned, “Jedi, we will continue this conversation later, under more… _favorable_ circumstances. For now, this is all we need,” he said, giving the map a slight wave for emphasis.

 

            Without further ado Vassol turned and exited, leaving the rest of the group to catch up.

 

            As soon as the last Lenoian was out the door, Obi-Wan saw his master’s shoulders sag. He immediately stepped to Qui-Gon’s side to offer assistance, but the larger man raised his hand to stall him, the other lifting to wipe his brow, and said, “No, Obi-Wan, I am fine. I just need to sit.”

 

            Obi-Wan watched with concern as his master lowered himself heavily into one of the chairs, but held himself back.

 

            “It seems I have not quite recovered enough strength to use the Force so liberally,” said the older Jedi with a rueful smile, hand still held to his forehead.

 

            “Is it from your injury?” asked Obi-Wan as he moved the discarded clothing draped over the other chair to the empty bed frame so he could sit across from his master.

 

            He could see the shift Qui-Gon’s manner that indicated he knew his padawan was implying the blow to his head, rather than the other solely physical injuries.

 

            “No, it is merely that my reserves are drained. Though I have spent much time using the Force to speed the mending of my broken leg, standing on it for such a long time, even without putting weight on it, was not wise.”

 

            Obi-Wan felt his face heat up, embarrassed that he could forget such a critical detail in his overriding concern for his master’s memory. Then again, he thought after the first flush of shame wore off, Qui-Gon had gone to great lengths to ignore or conceal his condition, and that could be his intent now. Even so, however tempted his was to confront the older Jedi, Obi-Wan decided to set the issue aside for the time being.

 

            Unfortunately, there were more immediate matters that needed his attention. Now that the Lenoians were gone the encounter would have seemed almost surreal, if not for the horrible mess they had left behind. Obi-Wan looked around the room before letting out a very un-Jedi like sigh. Qui-Gon gave him a swift look of disapproval that was somewhat ruined by the amusement underneath, having obviously followed his padawan’s train of thought.

 

            “You rest, Master, I’ll pick up,” said Obi-Wan, standing up and grabbing a single boot that had been discarded on the table.

 

            “Is that my padawan, I hear, _volunteering_ to clean?” said Qui-Gon, his voice full of gentle teasing.

 

            Obi-Wan threatened to let the few things he had collected drop with a mischievous grin, and said, “Or you could sleep on the floor, Master, if you prefer.”

 

            “Oh no, do not let me stifle your initiative. What kind of master would I be if I did?”

 

            It was good, in a way Obi-Wan could not quite describe, to banter as if they were safe again in their quarters on Coruscant. He could ignore the trembling in his hands and focus on the simple tasks before him: putting the clothes away in the closet, and remaking the beds. But it was a false comfort, and Obi-Wan could feel how brittle the moment was, how easily it could be broken. They needed to discuss what had happened, but not yet.

 

 

            Qui-Gon had lain down to rest after Obi-Wan finished picking up, and was soon fast asleep. The young man knew that was not his master’s original intention, but he could not help but be glad the jedi was getting some natural, healing rest. Lunch arrived early, and Obi-Wan had to gently shake Qui-Gon awake. The older man was startled at first, but Obi-Wan soon felt the familiar brush of the Force, Qui-Gon’s fingertips lightly touching his braid. They ate silently by the open window, the air unusually still and heavy outside. Half way through the meal they both paused, as if by unspoken agreement.

 

            Qui-Gon spoke first, “Our visitors this morning seemed most interested in your friend.”

 

            “They must have been seeking evidence for a trial like the ones I have been telling you about.”

 

            “Misshi seems to be in the power of some formidable people.”

 

            Obi-Wan understood what Qui-Gon left unsaid, “Perhaps she is in hiding.”

 

            “Perhaps…”

 

            His master let the thought dangle, though Obi-Wan could tell he did not share the young man’s tentative optimism. This, more than anything else, stole away his faint hope.

 

            After a weighty pause, Qui-Gon continued, “I sense we are in some danger, Padawan.”

 

            “So do I,” Obi-Wan said, “Do you think it will be soon?”

 

            “It is difficult to say, but we must rest and prepare for what is to come, whatever it may be.”

 

            “Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan gave the expected reply, but felt the tension disguised by the conversation’s dry formality.

 

            After a late dinner Qui-Gon prepared for bed and soon went to sleep, following his own admonition for rest. Obi-Wan remained seated by the window, absent mindedly listening to the growing noise of the crowd in the distance. He’d heard it every day since the coup, knew what it foretold, but the padawan found himself compelled to lift up the new data pad that had arrived with the meal and turn it on. Apparently the last person who used it was watching the local broadcast because the video immediately began streaming, the sound of the live feed a few seconds ahead of the distant rumble drifting through the window. Obi-Wan meant to change the channel, he knew it was time for the unpleasant results of the day’s trials, but he found his eyes riveted to the screen when he recognized one of the condemned.

 

            It was Misshi.

 

            Obi-Wan felt a burning in his chest, until some remote part of his brain realized he had forgot to breath. He sucked fresh air in with and audible hiss as they marched Misshi and six others up to the scaffold to publicly declare their crimes and prepare them for execution.

 

            It seemed impossible she could be tried and convicted when they were still gathering evidence this morning. Some part of Obi-Wan’s mind refused to accept what he was seeing, but he could not look away. Slowly the reality of it began to cut through the numbness of his mind as the cheers of the mob on the tiny screen were invariably echoed in the distance. He watched with growing horror as bags were placed over each of the condemned heads followed by a noose. Obi-Wan thought he could hear the executioner tighten each one, though it was unlikely such a soft sound would be picked up by the mics. Time seemed to stretch painfully as the executioner slowly strode over to the lever, and, with a signal from a robed official, released the trap doors.

 

            Obi-Wan’s eyes never left the small, frail figure of the nurse until the rope tightened with a snap, and he could look no more. His eyes automatically fixed to the sky outside their window, to a tiny star fighting against the lamp-light, suddenly aware of his captivity in a way he had never been before. The crowd wash cheering for the “Traitors’” demise, and Obi-Wan did not have to look to know the cameras would linger on the dangling feet until the last one stopped. He shut off the pad in an abrupt burst of anger, but the noise of the mob continued to drift through the window. It was faint, accusatory.

 

            With a sudden rush the guilt descended, shutting out all sight, all sound, the same phrase repeating its self in Obi-Wan’s mind again and again:

 

            _What have I done._


	9. Gray Skies

            The temperature had dropped considerably during the night, but Obi-Wan had stubbornly wrapped himself in Qui-Gon’s cloak and both spare blankets rather than close the window. The quiet of the few hours preceding dawn was tranquilizing; even the occasional whirr of a passing speeder was muffled.

 

            A distant part of Obi-Wan was aware of the moment when Qui-Gon woke up and performed his usual Force signature check. He was relieved when his master did not approach him but instead limped to the fresher using the crutches he had been provided. But it was only a temporary reprieve, because as soon as Qui-Gon was finished he made his way over and gently slid the window shut.

 

            “I was meditating, Master,” said Obi-Wan, keeping his gaze locked the opposite wing of the building outside the window, hoping the older Jedi would leave him be.

 

            “No, you were brooding,” said Qui-Gon in his no-nonsense tone of voice.

 

            Obi-Wan’s eyes immediately snapped over to his master. In the darkness it was difficult to read Qui-Gon’s expression, especially with his back turned to the dim light shining weakly through the window, and Obi-Wan wondered for the first time if his master could even read his own unguarded features. But expression or no, it did not seem to matter, Qui-Gon could always see through his attempts at deception.

 

            “What happened?”

 

            “I… she was…” but Obi-Wan found he could not force the words past the growing lump in his throat.

 

            “Padawan,” said Qui-Gon, reaching out to rest one of his large hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, “do not let fear hold your tongue.”

 

            The jedi master seemed to tower over Obi-Wan in the darkness as he had when he was younger, a pillar of strength, and no longer the injured and weary figure the apprentice had become accustomed to seeing in the daylight.

 

            “It is not fear, Master…” _but guilt_.

 

            Obi-Wan thought he had spoken the last in the deepest, most private corner of his mind, but he could sense that somehow Qui-Gon knew. The older man sighed and sat down in the second chair without lifting his hand.

 

            “Please, tell me what is wrong.”

 

            The deep, soothing sound of his master’s voice chipped away at Obi-Wan’s unconscious barrier until the story came pouring forth. He described turning on the data-pad and the chilling scene that followed, stumbling over some of his words, embarrassed that he could not stop repeating the phrase, “I watched as,” at the start of each new sentence.

 

            But Qui-Gon did not ask him to stop or interrupt with questions, for which Obi-Wan was grateful. Even if his account was somewhat incoherent, he was not sure he _could_ stop. Now that the words had been given an outlet, it felt as if he must let them all go, or be lost in the deluge.

 

            Qui-Gon absorbed his padawan’s revelation in silence, carefully weighing his response. He gave Obi-Wan’s shoulder a squeeze before drawing his band back.

 

            “I am truly sorry to hear that,” the words were almost trite, but Obi-Wan could hear the genuine remorse in his master’s voice, “She sounded like a wonderful person, I wish we could have met.”

 

            But his remorse could not touch the root of Obi-Wan’s distress, and Qui-Gon could sense it.

 

            “Padawan—Obi-Wan,” he said, trying to address his apprentice’s unspoken concerns, “What happened is terrible, but there was nothing we could have done.”

 

            “But, Master,” a frown marring his smooth features, “can’t you see, what happened to Misshi happened because of us!”

 

            “You do not know that. A multitude of factors could have contributed to and caused this event which we may never know or fully understand,” Obi-Wan wanted to protest, but he knew by the tone of Qui-Gon voice he would allow no interruptions or room for argument, “Padawan, release your negative emotions into the Force. Of more immediate concern is the fact that this tragedy has revealed a source of the danger we face. Now, more than ever, we must focus on the present. Be mindful of the Living Force. When we cannot actively shape what is to come, we must be prepared to let the natural flow of events guide us. Assumptions will only cloud our judgment.”

 

 

            The sententious speech did nothing to ease Obi-Wan’s mind and only stirred up an irrational resentment. “Yes, Master,” he answered sullenly.

 

            Obi-Wan thought he had hidden the defiance in his voice, but the implied reproof in Qui-Gon’s tone told him he had not succeeded, “You need sleep, my young padawan. We will meditate on this once you are properly rested.”

 

            “Yes, Master,” said Obi-Wan obediently crawling into bed, but fumed silently.

 

            Qui-Gon did not understand! It was all Obi-Wan’s fault. He should have realized what was happening, paid closer attention to the warning signs he had felt from the Force. Misshi was so kind and thoughtful! She only meant to assist them out of innate, innocent generosity, and was completely undeserving of the grisly death she suffered. He knew he was asking her to do something dangerous; it was obvious some one did not want them to regain their equipment, obvious that they were only nominally patients and actually prisoners. And yet, he had done nothing to stop her, he had even asked her to find their weapons! Not only had he allowed her perform such dangerous tasks, he had deliberately asked her to do something which would obviously be taken as hostile, treasonous, and without any thought as to the risk he was selfishly asking her to run.

 

            The seething irritation Obi-Wan felt after Qui-Gon’s speech drained away to reveal the sorrow and guilt that was its source. How could he have been so thoughtless? He had been training for this type of situation for years, and yet he had given no consideration to his actions. He had never shown himself to be less worthy of being a Jedi, of being a more terrible, selfish person—

 

            “Obi-Wan— _Go. To. Sleep_.”

 

            The sound of his master’s voice cut through Obi-Wan’s haze of self-recrimination, the firm Force suggestion nudging him into a dark, dreamless oblivion.

 

           

 

            When Obi-Wan finally woke up, he still felt groggy and exhausted. He carefully surveyed the room from beneath his cocoon of blankets. Qui-Gon was laying in his own bed, broken leg propped up, and reading from the data-pad. On the table by the window stood one breakfast tray, but since Qui-Gon’s was obviously gone it must have been well past mid-morning. The window was cracked open, carrying in a heavy, but cool, damp smell. Dark clouds loomed, dampening the light and giving Obi-Wan the curious impression that it was much later in the day than it actually was.

 

            The atmosphere made him want to curl up and fall back asleep, but his mind was already too awake and the sight of breakfast waiting made his empty stomach rumble. While Obi-Wan completed his morning routine and sat down to eat, Qui-Gon continued to read silently.

 

            “Obi-Wan,” said Qui-Gon, after hobbling over as soon as the padawan had pushed his empty tray away, “tell me what is bothering you.”

 

            It was hard to look his master in the eye. Obi-Wan felt ashamed of both his un-jedi like sulk the night before, and the fact that he still held those same feelings deep within. He felt as if he were still precariously close to falling once more into that downward spiral of guilt and sorrow, where one fed on and strengthened the other.

 

            Although he struggled to find the words, Qui-Gon was patient. “Master, I… I can’t help feeling like her death was my fault,” there was no need to say who, Obi-Wan was not even sure he could say Misshi’s name out loud, “I know what you said last night is true, but I should have known something like that would happen. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I could have done to prevent it…”

 

            “Obi-Wan, how could you have known, what could you have done?”

 

            “I… I could have stopped her… not asked her for help…”

 

            “From what you have told me and the way to talk about her, I am not sure there is anything you could have done to stop her. Misshi seemed eager to help. Can you honestly say, _given what you knew at the time_ , you wouldn’t have answered her questions, wouldn’t have told her what we needed?”

 

            “But, Master, I should have realized it would be dangerous, it was so obvious,” his reply came out almost whiny, but Obi-Wan was becoming tired of repeating himself.

 

            “Was it?”

 

            Something in Qui-Gon’s tone and eyes kept Obi-Wan from shouting out the automatic “Yes!” that had risen to his lips. Instead he stared, mouth still half open.

 

            Qui-Gon let his words sink in, before continuing, “Was it really? Think carefully. What is your strongest feeling? Not what may or may not have been done, but your reaction what did occur.”

 

            “I feel…guilt. Responsible for her death,” the last word came out nearly a whisper, Obi-Wan was surprised he even said it out loud, “I feel like I failed… Misshi, you… myself.”

 

            Qui-Gon let out a long sigh, and said, “Padawan, fear comes in many forms, and it is often the fear of what we may find in ourselves, the fear of our own failings, that is the most dangerous. Do not let your negative emotions cloud your judgment. Although they are natural, you must accept, and then release them.”

 

            “I understand, Master,” said Obi-Wan, letting out a sigh of his own, eyes turned to his folded hands in his lap, “otherwise they will only feed on each other and breed new fears.”

 

            “Yes,” Qui-Gon sounded satisfied, “I think now would be an excellent time for some meditation.”

 

            His master’s words were soothing, giving him the firm anchor he’d lacked before. A voice of reason, reiterating the important lessons he already knew and allowing him to weigh them against what he felt now in this specific instance. All in all, Obi-Wan felt much more in control of his emotions, and yet… and yet there lingered a stubborn seed of doubt. And when he replied with, “Yes, Master,” to Qui-Gon’s suggestion, there was slightest lack of conviction.

 

 

            There was a sharp knock at the door, and instead of a nurse it was Lemleshor who came in bearing their lunch tray. The doctor wore a forced smile, and when he spoke it was almost painfully cheerful, “Good afternoon! Along with lunch I thought I would bring you some _flarras_ bread, the traditional food commemorating this name-day for _Lenvakasis_. Do you know the celebration?”

 

            As Lemleshor spoke he set the tray down on the table and stood somewhat awkwardly between the two Jedi. Obi-Wan shared a look with Qui-Gon, and answered, “It was mentioned in our briefing, but there was very little information.”

 

            “It is, in fact, the day-naming celebration. I am sorry, it is a little difficult to translate. Each day of the week has a special food and item associated with it, and the entire week is given to festivities. I myself am going to visit my family very soon,” Lemleshor said the last with strange emphasis, looking first to Obi-Wan, then to Qui-Gon.

 

            “I see,” replied the Jedi master, his deep voice casual and relaxed, “It sounds like a most curious holiday.”

 

            “Yes, for many generations it has been a rather light-hearted time. This year, Hroshis, one of the co-commissioners of the People’s Tribunal has decided to place special emphasis on its original significance—but, I am boring you with my talk.”

 

            Lemleshor did not look as if he thought they were bored at all.

 

            “We are always interested in learning about other cultures,” said Qui-Gon, “Please, continue.”

 

            “ _Lenvakasis_ is the celebration of freedom from tyranny. It began many centuries ago when the exspansive empire of Sommun was defeated and Lenoia was formed. Each day was named for the purging, or freedom from, of a corruptive influence. Such as today: _Dollkas_ , purging of charlatins, or Sommun’s preist-doctors who were at odds with Lenoia’s local religious beliefs. Yesterday was _Craikas_ , purging of the informers,” the doctor drummed his finger’s together with a nervous aagitation Obi-Wan had never seen before.

 

            “Tomorrow is perhaps more… amusing. It is _Thovkas_ , purging of magicians—alchemists and men who claimed to move things without touching them. Of course, this all culminates on the seventh day with _Sulkas_ , or purging of tyrants. You can understand why the former regime was much more concerned with celebrating sweet-meats and baked _tuffa_ , and why the Party is pleased to celebrate it in a more historically inspired, if somewhat… literal, manner.”

 

            “Literal?” said Obi-Wan.

 

            “Oh, you did not know?” before the doctor’s casual tone of voice was so over-done it was almost comical, but Lemleshor suddenly turned deathly serious, “The party leaders have decided to co-ordinate the trials and punishment of ‘enemies of the people’ to fit day of the week. After all, have we not once more thrown off the ‘yoke of oppression?’”

 

            Suddenly everything began to fall into place for Obi-Wan, Lemleshor was giving them a veiled warning, albeit a somewhat clumsy one.

 

            Qui-Gon said, “I am glad your people have an opportunity to return to their roots,” without any noticeable recognition of the doctor’s deeper meaning, and Obi-Wan wondered if perhaps his master had caught on earlier.

 

            “Yes, I am very pleased to have the opportunity to visit my family so soon. I will be ‘shutting up the shop’ as the parlance goes, in two hours. Please enjoy your _flarras_ bread.”

 

            Lemleshor gave each of them one last check up, congratulated Obi-Wan on recovering from his flu so completely, told Qui-Gon to stay off his leg while giving the older man a look that said how little he believed his advice would be followed, and said his goodbyes with definite air of finality.

 

            As soon as the door slid closed, the jedi pair looked at each other. For the first time since the coup, Qui-Gon spoke directly into Obi-Wan’s mind.

 

            // _It is possible we are being monitored._ // Out loud, Qui-Gon said, “Let us try these delicious looking rolls.”

 

            “Yes, I almost got to try _flarras_ bread before, but my stomach as too upset the last time they had it,” said Obi-Wan out loud, and only responded to his master’s unspoken thought once he was chewing on a large bite of his bread.

 

            // _Master, Dr. Lemmy must have been implying they will come for us tomorrow. Otherwise, why would he go into such detail about the first few days and the ‘magicians’ and then skip to the final day?_ //

 

            Although Obi-Wan suspected they were both thinking it, he could not bring himself to mention Misshi must have been one of the sacrifices fitting the first day’s “theme.”

 

            // _Yes, and be careful with your roll, he may have left us something… though I doubt he’d actually put anything inside—_ //

 

            Qui-Gon’s eyes widened when Obi-Wan’s eyebrows flew up and he made a sudden “HMMMMM,” noise while biting into his bread.

 

            “Padawan, did you just bite your—“

 

            //Lenvakasis, _it’s_ Lenvakasis _! It’s this week, that’s what she meant!_ //

 

            // _Obi-Wan! Please calm yourself, you are going to give me a headache with your ‘shouting.’_ //

 

            // _Sorry, Master,_ // Obi-Wan replied contritely and with much less force, //Lenvakasis _must be the time Misshi meant us to escape. I wondered why she kept mentioning the ‘days of the week’… She said someone would be waiting to meet us—at least, that’s how I understood it._ //

 

            “This is wonderful bread,” said Qui-Gon with a hum of satisfaction.

 

            As he set down his bread down on its napkin, Obi-Wan saw his master discreetly palm something from underneath.

 

            “Yes. It was so good I accidently bit down too hard,” the padawan said, belatedly remembering someone might be watching.

 

            Qui-Gon raised a single eyebrow, as if to comment on Obi-Wan’s less than natural performance, but instead continued their wordless conversation, // _Interesting. And it seems we have been given a means of escape. He has left us not only bread, but a key-card._ //

 

            // _Should we go now?_ //

 

            Instead of replying right away, Qui-Gon uncovered the main course, and said, “However, I’d like to eat my lunch before I fill up on bread,” only then did he answer Obi-Wan’s question // _No. Let us give the Doctor his two hours. If I read him correctly, that will be the time to make our move._ //

 

            They both focused on their food, meandering through a rather bland conversation ranging from the meal to the rather gloomy weather. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan went over everything he knew about the situation in his mind, and decided he has something important to add.

 

            // _Master, they took away the map, but I think I have it mostly memorized. The original idea was for us to escape using the tangled courtyard and some of the well concealed shortcuts. I believe we can still make it through, and possibly meet the contact Misshi mentioned._ //

 

            It still hurt to talk about the late nurse, but with an objective to occupy his mind, Obi-Wan found it easer to focus.

 

            Qui-Gon unconsciously nodded, and replied // _Good. Let us begin there._ //

 

            But it only took moments for Obi-Wan to fill his master in completely and for them to make the few decisions required. Afterwards, they had only to wait. The next hour and a half was going to be very long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new years resolution is to finish this beast. I've got it all planned out, I just have to write it.


End file.
